4 comments/ 11790 views/ 8 favorites Dad or Mom? By: missassam The story about Dad's spanking as a boy came out when we were visiting Grandma's farm in the summer holidays. A sister asked about an old, flat sofa. It was long, like a bed, and stood in a closed-in porch that ran along the side of the farmhouse. "Who used to sleep here, Grandma, in the old days?" my youngest sister asked. She had developed an interest in family history at the most basic level- who slept where, who milked the cows and other stuff. "Oh, nobody slept here." And she put the emphasis on slept. "It was where I made your Dad and his brothers lie when I was giving them a paddle. Lie on their tum-tums, right there..." I and my three sisters and two girl cousins absorbed this shocking revelation wide-eyed. "Made them lie down...to be spanked?" asked my older cousin. Her eyes were on fire. "Right there. Lying on their stomachs, bottoms within easy reach...and in fact I think I've still got that paddle." "Wow!" She went to a heavy old cupboard and tugged open a stubborn draw and rummaged. The smell of camphor and stored linen filled the corner of the room. After a few seconds she produced what she had looked for: a rectangular paddle with a long handle, varnished and only a little worn. "There! Like it?" The grey-haired 75 year old held it like a tomahawk. I noticed a flush in the girls' faces I'd never seen before. This talk was stirring something deep in their dormant motherly instincts. Some notion of a female domain, where girls dominate and males, even strong ones like my father and my uncles- farm boys, teenage field hands- lie down meekly to be paddled on their behinds. Yielding themselves up to be punished by determined females. Males offering up their vulnerable behinds. I saw my older sister, eyes ablaze, exchange glances with the oldest of the cousins. The cousin grinned back at her like a crocodile. Then the two turned to me, grinning. I blushed, looked down. In fact all attention gravitated to me, the only male. And an awkward, bashful, spotty-faced one at that. With Grandma's story something had changed between us, between me and the girls. "I see you young ladies like hearing about this but I don't think Tommy does! Not one little bit!" pronounced Grandma. I turned red as a fire hydrant. The girls giggled as each tried to catch my eye. They asked questions of the old lady. Had she punished her boys often? Always with the paddle? On their own, or together? And always on the sofa? Ever...(and here my sister paused)...over the lap? Yes, she had paddled them a lot, said Grandma, saying she had to maintain discipline with Grandpa away (he was state chairman of the Minnesota Farmers' Union) so a paddling was a regular occurrence. Mostly she said she favoured the paddle but a folded belt was sometimes convenient. Very often the three boys would get up to mischief together and need to be punished one after the other, waiting standing up, while she finished working the one lying face-down. Over the lap? Yes, sometimes, just to remind them she was their mother and always in charge and they were only boys. "They hated that. Lying over my knee." "Why?" "Oh, the embarrassment. That's part of the punishment." There was silence, imaginations racing. They and I were thinking of one detail not so far addressed. "That's why I let their sisters watch." There was an intake of breath. There was a reflective silence. "Our aunts?" The older cousin asked this question. "Sure. The boys hated it. Truly hated it. And that added to the punishment." Grandmom looked at me as she said this. The girls' eyes seemed to swim with the possibilities. There was still one question we youngsters wanted answered. The girls and me. But we were too afraid to ask. I certainly wasn't going to. As we elbowed our way out they chattered and laughed. Something had changed in the relationship between us. They were straining to catch my eye. A general feeling of excitement seemed to unite them. That day I found reasons to be on my own- hanging around the red timber barn, feeding the hogs, peddling an old bike down a back road- avoiding their company, until late afternoon when we packed into the Pontiac Safari station wagon, us kids crammed in the back seat, for the three hour drive home to St Paul. I was still gloomy. But they were frisky...all because of that encounter with Grandma and her little revelation about bringing up boys on a mid-West farm in the 1920s. On the drive past cornfields, lakes and dairies the girls sung songs, asked questions about Dad's childhood and complained about returning to school. Mom asked why I was so silent. I mumbled something about being tired. Dad said something about how I was growing up and teenagers were moody but should try to avoid it. Something in this exchange- the reference to my being downbeat or my growing up- stirred my older sister. "Hey Dad, when you were growing up..." "Yep." "...and got into trouble with Grandmom..." "Yep." "...and she paddled you and your brothers..." "Ahhh, so she told you about that? Did she show you her old paddle, stored away in that draw?" "Yes! She waved it around!" There was a burble of laughter from the girls. Mom said he hadn't told her about that and Dad confirmed, taking his pipe from his mouth, that yes, she was a real disciplinarian and used spanking with relish. So did every matriarch- he used the word- in a farming family. Not a week went by without him and his brothers being called to account. Yep, right up to when they went off to the armed services. "You mean right up till you were 18?" Mom asked, surprised. "You bet!" And the girls asked questions. Dad confirmed that, yes, she sometimes put them over her knee. Yes, she also used a folded belt and, when they were younger, her hand. She punished them as a group, generally. "That was terrible, standing there, while my brothers' bottoms turned red..." Us youngsters went rigid at this image. Holy cow, I thought. We stopped breathing. He had said, "...while his brothers' bottoms turned red." Which implied one thing, we all thought... "...and my sisters watched..." The earth seemed to stand still. In the back seat, packed in between sisters and cousins, my heart thumped: his sisters watched! The five girls were enthralled. Dad chuckled, and continued. "...and I huddled there, waiting my turn... "...naked as a jay." Naked as a jay! He said it! He said it! She punished them bare! But not just their pants down. Totally nude. That's what "naked as a jay" meant, surely. "You mean that old dear your mother punished you boys stripped off? Totally nude?" Mom was astonished by her husband's revelation. "Oh yeah!" Dad said. "In our birthday suits..." The phrase made me shrivel. It always did. My sisters and cousins were really excited and turning in the seat to look me over. "...bare as boards! And kept us that way for as long as she liked afterwards. Yep, buck naked. Gotta tell yer, the sisters kinda liked it!" He laughed away. And then my older sister asked the killer question. "Mom would you and Dad ever punish Tommy that way?" It knocked Mom for six. But only for seconds. She then thought of her current grievance against me. "If he disappoints with those mid-year grades next week we'll be reduced to it!" "You heard that, Tommy, you're in trouble if those grades are bad," added my Dad. He chuckled some more, good-naturedly. The girls nudged one another. My older cousin was determined to enter the discussion. "Aunt Irene, would you punish Tommy or would uncle..?" "Goodness me, no! That's a job for fathers!" Dad just chuckled. "Only let us watch," said my youngest sister, under her breath. "But where Dad? Where would you paddle Tommy?" My middle sister wanted to mine this for all it was worth. "Oh, dunno...if he were bad enough...hell...I guess, right over the fender of this car...in our driveway!" The girls shrieked and jammed my ribs. My older sister whispered, "Ahhhh! We'll see you in the nuddy! In the driveway...getting walloped on your little botty!" I blushed and felt all funny. Strange in the pit of my tummy. Humiliated...and stimulated all at once. "No fella, only kidding!" Dad assured me as we sped along Highway 36. Hands on the wheel, he chuckled. "Only kidding. And you girls calm down now! Let's hear some music." He switched on the radio to the sound of Tab Hunter crooning Young Love. I found myself with an instant, raging erection. I closed my hands over my lap but feared my older sister had glimpsed the movement behind my flies. My mind was on fire, my fantasies danced. To be spanked...by Dad! It was a thrilling concept. Truth was my mother was distant. Later I would recognise her as the archetypal 1950s neurotic Mom, her gaze far-off, her late afternoon-breath fragrant with gin. Her interest in me was routine, without the slightest hint of warmth. With my sisters she could talk make-up or dresses but found nothing in common with a disappointing son. She had not wanted a son, it was pretty clear. I was also aware of another element in our family life. There was a distance between her and Dad. I did not know what it was. Whatever it might be I was on his side. He was the parent who had my affection. I was looking forward to him teaching me how to shave and felt embarrassed my facial hair was so wispy. I practised sport hard, yielding up team results and swim reports to win his approval, For the rest of the journey my fantasies wove and rewoved themselves. My penis stayed hard as a rock. It was a difficult family supper, the girls all frisky and sly, darting glances at me and one another, whispering lewdly. I was glad to make the privacy of my bedroom and, under the blankets, be able to slide my pyjamas down to my knees. I needed relief from the terrors Grandmom had unleashed. I had a lot to occupy me as I began the familiar rhythm, pleasuring myself and making the hell of my existence fade for a moment at least. How did Grandmom make the boys strip? In their own room...and troop out together in a line, with sisters sniggering in the corridor? The brothers holding their hands in front, over their groins? Or did she order them to stand in that side room- stand in a row- and peel their clothes off in front of her? With their sisters looking? I was feverish with these images. So they lay on their tummies. I knew that the males in his family had large, loose scrotums, just as I did. I'd heard Dad joke with the uncles, laughing at a bull in the stables and saying he's got "the Gilles family ballsac alright, only we're tragically short pricked." The uncles had laughed. But for me, lying under the blankets playing with my dick, the point was: did the scrotums show between their thighs when they lay flat and Granny hovered over them? Did the sisters giggle at their exposed balls? My hand moved along my shaft. Faster. I frowned with concentration. In my mind's eye- in the movie theatre in my head- the drama played out. Naked young men...lying face down...being punished by an angry grey-haired ole dame. How hard had she paddled? Did they howl? Kick? Try to roll over? And if they did, did they reveal their private bits, scrunched up? Did their sisters get to hold them in place- my imagination raged at this possibility- stretching them by ankles and wrists? And when it was over did she make the farmboys stand by the wall, hands on head? Dad and his brothers were athletes and had hauled and shovelled from one end of the farm to the other. They had big veins on the balls of their biceps, corded forearms, V-shaped torsos. They had manes of hair on pectorals, pelts on their stomachs. The girls, and any visiting females- like mothers of their friends, their aunts- would have enjoyed their forced nudity. Especially those balls. I twisted with excitement. I fingered away. I summoned up the steamy, ultimate shame, a truly terrific mental picture- namely, that Dad and his brothers might have sported erections when, with shiny red asses, they rose from the sofa and stood to be lectured, and then been made to parade -with those hardons- through the house, back to their room, past female house guests. Gandmom's old friends there for a card party, freckled-faced friends of the boys' sisters...all the females looking up at them, smiling, staring... ...the young men entirely nude, padding past, boners bouncing in front... Whoosh! My sticky emission flooded my fingers. I think it was the biggest of my teenage ejaculations. Outside I heard Jack Parr bring The Tonight Show to an end. The TV got switched off. The family noisily bundled itself upstairs, to their rooms, the sisters and cousins still skylarking. One by one I heard bedroom doors slam, heard the sound of shoes being flung, the sound of bed springs. For my part my tummy was still all aflutter. I was too excited to sleep. With the smell of my recent ejaculation still in my nostrils I was ready for another round. My mind wandered. It tested possibilities. Many. The emission was still sticky on my tummy, my pants still unrolled. And my imagination was off, raging. My penis was re-inflating. I settled on something at once lovingly domestic and wicked beyond imagining. The little narrative was uncoiling in my fevered mind. In my new fantasy I was in my parents' bedroom. I was completely nude. I stood trembling, knees knocking together. Dad was seated on the bed. He too was entirely naked, just as when he was a teenager himself being punished by Grandmom...only now, grown-up, in his adult body: muscular in a man's way, hairy on his chest and tummy and haunches, with his horn-rim glasses. Horn rims...but nothing else. He was nude. He held Grandmom's paddle... He told me to come and lie across his knees. Thinking of this, lying there, I shook. But this was something so delicious I was intent on making it last. Before I succumbed to this second fantasy, gamier than the earlier one, I decided to go to the bathroom and get some cold cream. I tightened my pyjamas and crawled out of bed. The corridor was quiet. All the bedroom doors shut. I tiptoed, sticking to the rug. Silent as a burglar. My older sister had a room to herself. Passing her door I heard a low, insistent moaning. I paused. It became louder. It sounded as if she were thrashing herself. "Oahh! Oahh! Oahh! Oahh!" Then it became frantic. "Oaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!" Accompanied by a furious kicking of the mattress. The bed springs squeaked. And then again. And again. She stopped. There was a desperate panting, as if she had just run a marathon. I move along the corridor, musing on this mystery of existence just vouchsafed to me. I passed the room being shared by younger sisters and cousins. They were busy whispering. I could make out some words and phrases. Clearly they were dissecting the revelations of the day. "...totally stripped off...just think!" It was the wicked cousin. Giggles from the others. "...could see...all...all...their...things!" "Cocks! That's what they call them. Boys talk about their COCKS!" More giggles. Questions from one of them. "(Mumble mumble mumble)...a sausage! A banana!" Giggles. "...girls...get...to watch..." "...bottoms turn red, he said...after spanking...by Grandmom!" "...not just underpants...EVERYTHING!" This time, evil, cunning giggles. I continued down the corridor, careful to stick to the runner carpet and make no sound. Outside my parents' bedroom, behind the closed door, I heard the persistent creak of bed springs. Mom and Dad at it. Cr...eak. Cr...eak. Cr...eak. Above the springs I heard Dad pant...then grunt. Grunt. Grunt. Grunt...coming faster. "Oh Harry...be careful," came my mother's anxious lament. And a long, drawn-out grunt...then an exhalation from Dad. "Ahhhhhhhhh." I sensed something joyless in all this. After these performances- the sound of creaking bed springs and the panting- either Dad or Mom sometimes stumbled to the bathroom so I made it there in a few big silent steps, seized the Ponds Cold Cream and got back to my room. I stealthily slipped out of the pyjamas and sat on the edge of my bed. Naked. Just like my Dad had been in my fantasy. As I unscrewed the jar I returned to my mental picture show. To Dad... ...and me. Naked... ...in the parents' bedroom... ...the two of us... ...two fellas who happened to be father and son... ...sitting, nude, side by side... ...the Dad, compact and muscular and hairy and brown... ...his son, lithe and athletic, smooth... ...looking down at one another's laps, both their cocks standing rigid... I scooped the delicious, soft cream and slathered its riches on my member. Outside, right on cue, Mom padded to the bathroom. She closed the door. She fumbled for that hidden bourbon at the back of the cupboard. Then I heard the tap come to life. From the master bedroom Dad issued a luxurious snore. And the girls were at something too. I heard a cousin let forth a moaning noise as her bed springs croaked. The family had been stimulated by the talk of male nudity, spankings, red male bottoms. I sunk into delicious fantasy, about a dad and his 18 year old son... Two nights later with the house empty, on some wild instinct, I entered the forbidden territory of the parent's room. I breathed in the smell of furniture polish, Mom's perfume and Dad's cologne and shoe leather, and...burrowed into my father's cupboard. What was I looking for? I wanted perhaps to find something secret, something about his private life. The top drawer immediately yielded its treasure: along with his pipe and its cleaners, combs, club membership badges, old receipts and worn-down pencils, I found a box emblazoned "Durex Gossamer For Family Planning," which I recognised as Dad's "rubbers." I knew all about rubbers from fellas at school. We had inspected abandoned crinkled used rubbers in a lovers' lane and had fished them from the grass on the end of a stick. I handled the packet reverently. Read the small print. Fantasised about pulling one on, preferably after Dad had used it. After it had been stretched by his erection, lubricated by his emission. I opened the clothes compartment. The hanging suits and jackets gave off a scent of dry cleaning. There was also a smell of moth balls. I saw a pile of magazines on the floor of the cupboard. Copies of Esquire on the top, a few layers down some Playboys. I was curious, dug further. Then- pay dirt! The next stratum comprised nudist magazines! My heart beat as I flicked through the pages of Sun and Health and saw fellas- my age, my father's- stark naked. I hadn't handled anything like this before. Their manly chests and shoulders were as thrilling to me as their asses and groins. I rummaged some more and exposed another layer: male physique mags- Grecian Guild Pictorial, Tomorrow's Man, Physique Pictorial. I had seen these on downtown newsstands but never had the courage to pay the 75 cents needed to gain entrance to the secret world they captured. I hungrily flicked through their pages. They featured pictures of boys my age decked in flimsy G-strings. They posed in settings that summoned up Ancient Rome, Classical Greece and the American West. The boys stood flexing, wrestled one another, sat on motorbikes, banished spears. Hints of pubic curls appeared above some G-string cups. An outline of male impedimenta was visible behind the cloth. With their backs turned they were allowed to be nude: not even waistband to confer respectability. My eyes glazed at the parade of bare male bottoms, better than any change room or after-game shower- asses fleshy, cleft, brazen. Dad or Mom? Ch. 02 Eric and I sat naked on the bleachers at the YMCA pool, St Paul. It was nine on a Monday night, the facilities near deserted. My weights room buddy had kept me back later than usual, after our swim and workout, with his ceaseless talk of body building, body builders, new routines, favorite muscle groups. After two hours of exercise I was happy to linger in his company. In the last few months both our physiques had pumped up. He was on his way to being the tall, broad shouldered Greek god, his athletic upper body tapering to a pinched waist and concave tummy. His glasses, framed in transparent plastic, made him look like Clark Kent. I was compact, like my Dad, but now after months of weights and swimming and weight trainer's food, every muscle was straining to be noticed. I had the makings of a V-shaped torso, horseshoe triceps, washboard abs. He sprawled back against the railing, one hand flicking his large nipples in a lazy gesture and then both hands travelling between abs and groin as he explained how he was set on defining his "Adonis belt." It was the muscle that curved in hip hollows, running into the groin. Defining the edge of the abs. Also known, Eric explained, as "Devil's horns." "See here...running up like this...Devil's horns..." He gestured up the edge of his abs. But he only drew my gaze to his lolling prick. It was very broad but narrowed to a very small glans: he had a penis head appropriate for a boy, yet a stem broad enough for a Viking warrior. He was circumcised like me. The brown band or ring around his upper stem was very dark. "Look at your abs! They're a real achievement, buddy..." I placed my towel over my groin. Any time Eric praised my physique I punched out an immediate erection. There was a splash at the end of the pool. Someone began to swim powerful laps. "Ah, your Dad!" Dad had dinner at home and then headed out for exercise or steam, either here or at St Paul's Athletic Club. Our workout programs rarely overlapped. "Hey, he was brown all over, your Pa. I just noticed. A perfect tan. A nudist. You can tell. Brown all the way here..." He smoothed his hand over his groin, as if inviting me once again to admire his fat, lounging prick with its funny diminutive cap. "...and his ass was all brown. Tanned. Your Dad must get around nude outdoors. That's how I'd like to be. Out at the lake..." And he was off telling me about his camping trips, the ones he kept inviting me to join, when at daybreak you could step out of the tent and walk to the water's edge. He implied, in the nude. With no one else around. Even- was he suggesting?- go nude in the woods all day? He stroked his chest, flicked his nipples as he hinted at possibilities. From the wide aureole the nipple jutted, conical and erect, bigger than I'd seen on any other male. I thought of Dad and his overall tan as he, without seeing us, ploughed the chlorine-scented water on his second lap. I wanted to sunbathe in his company. Father and son, sunning themselves in the nude. "So..." Eric was asking me something. "...where does your dad get around nude? To get that real cool tan?" "Dunno..." I reflected. "I heard the roof of the Athletic Club has sunbathing. Men only. His pal, Coach Compton, has a backyard pool..." "Can we get him to take us. I think all that would be real cool. Weight trainers should have golden skin..." And he was off again, stroking his groin and flicking his nipples unconsciously as he talked. I told him I had to get away. I'd bike home. Eric said he might take another swim and talk to my Dad. I watched the deep cleft of his ass stride off to the pool's edge. The shower was empty but there must have been 10 towels hanging outside the steam room although no conversation from inside. I headed home for some under-the-blankets fun with Grecian Guild and Physique Pictorial. These days Dad was busy, away a lot. Mom seemed to be drinking more. The female cousins and my sisters were frisky, ready to goad me about what they had seen during those paddlings. "Oh, that erection! That erection of yours! When we were watching Leave it to Beaver. Say, Tommy...you got one now?" Guffaws! This was over the breakfast table with Mom out of earshot. "Yes, Tommy, is it sticking out and up? Stand up, let us see if there's a bulge in those jeans?" "Now let's see, girls? How many of his classmates did we tell about that little episode?" "Oh, all of them I think, Karina. All of them. And...they loved it! How does that make you feel, Tommy? Told lots and lots of girls about your bottom, your cock with its pink hat and those long, dangling balls of yours." "They just couldn't believe that we saw your bottom paddled close up...saw your cock on display when you stood on the chair..." "That was our best trick!" boasted Willa. "You looked so funny up on that chair pulling your shirt to stop us seeing..." "...then we saw you marched naked around the house...and standing there in the living room!" "With your balls hanging down! With your little erection! Your pathetic erection because you couldn't keep your cock down." Guffaws. I fled the room. They were just as frisky when on Saturday afternoon Eric came round to do body weight exercises in our big backyard. We positioned ourselves on the weed infested lawn, beyond the old woodshed and started doing rounds of jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups and medicine ball catches. Eric's athletic good looks soon had them circling, pretending to idle on the swing that hung from the branches of the old oak or dawdle around the flower beds gossiping. Their eyes were on him. He felt their interest. "Shit, it's hot!" he exclaimed. Which was a pretext to peel off his T shirt and show off his washboard abs...and, yes- they were carving themselves- his Iliac groove or Adonis belt. Yes, his Devil's horns, on either side of his lower abs vanishing into his waistband running into his groin. His musculature was near-perfect. The girls were all staring. Even when he concentrated on our routine, he knew they were looking him over. He showed it when he discretely edged the band of his shorts lower. And later, just before another burst of boxing, lower still. Until there was the tiniest whorl of pubic hair- a piece of his timberline- on display. He showed his exhibitionism, too, by lasciviously running a palm over his pecs, lingering around his nipples, as if he wasn't thinking about it. This was while we rested between sets of exercises; the girls' eyes were all over him. He had consciously or not aroused the nipples so that the conical shapes stood up. I kept my shirt on. When we finished I told him I was off to take a shower. I was expecting him to immediately take off and bike home. But the girls closed in and had him surrounded, engaged in frivolous, flirty conversation. He stroked his torso- thoughtlessly, lovingly- while he smiled and parried. As I looked back from the steps I even saw a discrete movement of his hands force his shorts fractionally lower, putting on display for their captivated gaze, some more of his Adonis belt, another whorl of glistening pubic bush, a pair of hips without a trace of fat. If he made that adjustment once more, I thought, he'd be showing them the top of the cleft in his ass, the entire patch of pubic hair, even the base of his prick. The girls were entranced. By the bare torso, the breezy charm, the Saturday Evening Post, all-American boy, Clark Kent good-looks. As I entered the back door I heard Karina exclaim, "Hey, Eric, why don't you drop those shorts altogether! They couldn't be lower!" A comment that would have frozen me to the core simply resulted in peals of laughter in which his hearty baritone mingled with their prurient, giddy, excited giggles. With a capacity to push troubling things from my mind I took a leisurely shower with a quick, soapy jerk off stimulated by the close-ups of Eric's pinched waistline and fleshy nipples. So they had had plenty of time to get better acquainted. I dried and dressed. A glimpse through the kitchen window stunned me. They were huddled close. Eric was gap-mouthed with wonderment. Willa was animated and gesturing, telling him some story that riveted the boy. The other girls were on fire, transfixed. Then a cousin moved closer to Eric and...slapped his bottom hard! Her movement revealed the centre of their conversation: our family paddle! In Karina's right hand, being held like a tomahawk, clearly what had been getting them all fired up! They had been telling him about paddling. In fact the breeze carried the words "Grandmom" and "Dad," and the phrases "totally nude," "stripped to the buff," " lying on the bed face down." Hell! Seduced by his presence, they were giving him the full low down! I could see, even from this distance, a broad erection tenting his white gym shorts. They could not miss it. "TOMMY! TOMMY TOO?" Eric's words were shouted and they carried across the yard. They hushed him to be quiet. They leant in to whisper. No doubt a full account of my stripping and humiliation and paddling. I heard some more exclamations from him. "HELL! "...NUDE? "...TOTALLY?" And then watched them whispering the shameful details. "ERECT! YOU SAW HIM STIFF!" They hushed him again, leant in close to whisper more details. Their expressions were lubricious. And they kept swiping glances at his tented shorts. He did not seem to be embarrassed, even when one cousin pointed and sniggered. I could read her lips mouthing, "erection." In fact he guffawed and looked down himself, making a teasing gesture of pretending he was going to take the shorts down altogether which excited them more. And then they seemed to be canvassing a course of action, talking anxiously. Karina waved the paddle and made spanking gestures with it, directed at his bottom. More laughter, him mouthing Ouch and Ohhh! He leapt around, acting out the role of naughty boy being spanked. Their faces were on fire. They made excited glances to the woodshed. Also some nervous over-the-shoulder glances back to the house although I ducked in time to avoid being seen staring behind the fly screens. When I popped up again they were gone from the yard. It was empty. There was only Willa looking back as she carefully closed the woodshed door. I waited, heart beating. The main woodshed window was big. They would see me peeping. But from days of childhood games I knew about a ventilation block from which you could see everything inside if you stood on an old, splintering sawhorse that was abandoned in that corner of the yard. I slipped out the kitchen door, collected the sawhorse and mounted it to peer in. Holy Jesus! Eric had already abandoned his shorts. He was standing before them in a jockstrap, a favorite of his on his workout days: a J and J Swimmer with blue tracer line around a three inch waist band. The bulge in the meshing of the jockstrap cup looked ferocious. It was clear it contained a big, erect penis. One ready to spring forward and up the second it was released. There was a broad bench in the middle of the shed. "Yep...on there." Willa was giving directions. Eric was complying, submissively. He picked up his discarded gym shorts and folded them three times and lay them on the middle of the bench. "For some comfort," he joked. "Because I figure there ain't gonna be much in a minute." The "aw shucks" boyish humour charmed them. I could see it in their faces. They loved him. And he was, unbelievably, getting stripped off for them. To be paddled nude. Hell! He hitched his fingers into the band of the jocks, paused. He asked, "You girls sure you're ready to see this sight? Warning! This fella's got an erection. What we guys call a hardon." They all gazed at the swelling cup of his jocks and nodded greedily. He lowered his band just a faction. " I'm a bit shy..." "Go on," panted Willa. He edged them down further. Just a fraction. Below the timberline. Their eyes widened into pop-eyed stares, devouring the view he was showing: his glistening black pubic bush. Then another jerk and the tip of his erection jutted free. They gasped. In one whisk he had his jocks down to his heels. He boldly stepped out of them. He was totally nude, except for his plastic-rimmed glasses. My own erection jutted forward in my gym shorts as I took in the scene. His prick had sprang free, out and up. I had seen it erect in the showers (as he had seen mine.) Erect, his prick was broad-beamed, with that dark, wide, brown ring, the stem tapering suddenly into the narrow, small glans. A freakishly small penis head. His balls vanished when his cock stiffened. Flattened out completely. Barely a globe. "Wow!" "Bigger than Tommy's!" "Thick!" "Real thick!" "Except for that cute little cap, on the end!" "Yeah! That is cute, that little cap!" "Like that brown ring around it!" "And there's water coming out!" A trail of pre-ejaculatory fluid trailed to the floor, like a spider web. "Yeah...that sometimes happens." He stood proud, hands on hips. Showing off his manhood. Somehow the expression, "buff naked" or "stripped to the buff" seemed to fit his condition. The plastic-rimmed eyeglasses looked incongruous, heightened his rude nakedness. "Buff naked." A nude young guy, wearing only glasses, stripped off and erect. They leaned in close, taking in the details of his penis. He obviously enjoyed this, even turning so they could admire his manhood side on. "Tommy's bag...with his two little things..." My cousin Clara was curious about the difference between me and Eric. "...you mean his balls? His...testicles?" Eric helped her. Why not? Everything led back to his genitals which he clearly loved showing off. "Yes," said Clara. "They really hang low." "Ah, Tommy's a real low-hanger," said Eric. "These are mine. Tucked away, up here." And he lifted his ballbag and held it out for inspection. They crowded one another to see up close the handsome young athlete's genitals. "These are my balls...my testicles...here. See?" He squeezed and stretched so they could see his balls outlined. They nodded reverently. He turned and lowered himself face down on the bench, resting his head in his elbows as if sunbathing. He turned and looked up at Willa. "I'm a naughty boy. Teach me a lesson." The faces of the girls were aflame. Clearly, the notion of males offering up their bottoms, an idea introduced to them by our Grandmom and witnessed with me as victim, deeply, deeply appealed to them. Eric's nudity had fired them up as well. And it must be admitted his naked form did look appealing, his back V-shaped and his glutes pumped up by his fanatical programs of squats and lunges. He was still, in his musculature, however, more the teenager than the mature adult. This, I sensed, was a factor in how their eyes blazed so hungrily. Willa and Karina playfully tugged at the paddle in a battle to go first. Willa won and advanced. She raised the wooden implement. He looked back at her, lying on his tummy on the bench, nude except for his glasses low on his nose. "Oh, no! Looks like I'm gonna cop an ole fashioned paddling! No...please!" Willa brought it down. SPLAT! "Owwww!" But despite the protest and despite raising one leg Eric wasn't being hurt: it was clear to me the slap was nothing like I had suffered. SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! "Ow! Oh no! My little bottom! Pleaseeee....." His protests were actorish, the slaps of the paddle were warming him up not savaging him. This was a slight chastisement, a tickling and teasing of his bottom in which there was no real pain. Eric was loving it, loving the warmth on his ass, loving being the centre of attention, loving the way the girls' eyes dilated on his nudity. Three more slaps as Willa worked the circuit, not neglecting the upward tilt of the hillocks rising from his thighs- she lingered on those- and it was clear she was being gentle. His acting continued. Twisting sideways, careful to thrill them with a sight of his privates, his prick as stiff as before; sending his legs high as he muttered "Owww!" or "Ahhh!" Or even spluttering out pleas to stop. And when he did this he caused them to laugh hilariously by adopting what they had told him of my mannerism. "Oh, Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! "Oh, Mommy, please don't...please...Mommy, stop...please!" The girls doubled over with laughter as this cruel imitation of me. Every girl got her turn and some came down harder, making Eric's complaints a little more heart-felt. He was generous in showing off his erection, rolling over on his side in what looked sincere efforts to deflect their blows to his bottom. "Naughty boy," said Willa. "All this twisting. I think we'll have to hold you. Like we did with Tommy." And with this she raised her leg and boldly straddled his shoulders, sitting on him, facing behind. She was looking down on his blazing buttocks. She told a cousin to straddle his upper legs. This girl, Clara, looked feverish with lust as she raised a leg and lowered herself to sit on Eric's thighs. He had two girls sitting on him, their little fannies pressed into his bare skin. He was held in place, while the sixth girl to have her way with him started striking somewhat harder than all the others. This time his "Ahhhs" and "Owwws" were genuine. He was panting and his glasses had slid right down his nose. But he couldn't twist or get up. SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! "OOOWWWWWWW!" "That's all. That's enough," commanded Willa, straddling his upper back. "Whoa! Oh god...thanks...please...I...can't take...anymore!" He was panting and his glasses were at the end of his nose. The last burst had given him a taste of a real paddle. "But Eric I am intrigued. Your bottom is now red as a fire hydrant but I did notice earlier it wasn't white- like our Tommy's- but almost brown." Willa was right and I had noticed it too. Stripped in our woodshed today Eric revealed glutes that had struck me as tawny, golden. He must have been getting sun. But with all our recent workouts and swims he hadn't mentioned a camping trip. Intriguing, he had been going nude outdoors somewhere. But where? And why had he kept it secret when he gabbled about everything else? He was disconcerted by Willa's comment. "Ah...well...yeah...the downtown Athletic Club has a rooftop...where we can sunbath...after swimming..." "Wish we girls could do it! That must be real cool, sunbathing stark naked..." This was strange. Eric was not a member of the Athletic Club. Boys like us couldn't afford the big fees which was why the Y was so vital. Eric had never been there in his life. How had his bottom and his groin grown so golden, without hint of a tan line? The two girls got off him. He kinda shook himself out, lifting himself and showing off a still-rampant erection again. Right now, though, Karina was producing new instruments: a bundle of super light wooden switches that had once been used in garden plantings. She handed them to each girl. Eric was expecting it. "Ohhhh...noooo," he exclaimed, acting afraid. His voice was totally fake. He clutched the end of the bench, lowered his head. He even wriggled his buttocks as if to invite their attention. Willa ordered a cousin to join her in the first round. A girl on each side of the prone boy. They took deep breaths and, at the one time, whipped down across Eric's buttocks, producing a set of white tramlines stretching from globe to globe. "Helllllllll! Sheeeet!" His legs flew out, his head strained up. His hands flew back to smooth his cheeks. Dad or Mom? Ch. 02 This time his protests were sincere. They had overshot the mark. "Hey, girls! No...no...no...that really stung. Oh shit! Oh hell!" He was wriggling his ass as if to shake off the stings. He reached back and rubbed. They got the message. The next strokes, 10 in all, were mild. Teasing, tickling in comparison. Whip! Whip! Whip! The boy emitted purring noises, like a cat. He was settling into a romantic whipping after the earlier paddling. And started doing something else. He stretched his legs to the sides. Spread eagle style. Opening up his cleft. What was this all about, I wondered from my lookout, my cock stiff? To get some pleasant pain in the inner most reaches of his bottom? Or... Willa smiled between strokes, caught the eye of the cousin and nodded at the flaring cleft. The cousin could see it too. The other girls peered in. Or was he doing it to show off...to show off his most intimate spot of all, the little pucker of his hole? From my vantage spot I dropped my hand inside my shorts and began to finger my cock. Ten strokes each and it was the turn of two more girls to take to his bottom with the switches. Whip! Whip! Whip! For the most part he was plainly thrilled by the strokes and the girls' attention and found every opportunity to plead and moan. He rolled sideways to show off the contents of his groin: his persistently stiff cock. He also threw his legs out to the sides, getting his cleft flaring for them, letting them smile and nod to one another as he showed off the hole in his bottom. Maybe by now, the final pair of girls lashing away, his bottom was really stinging. Karina struck so enthusiastically she broke her switch and Eric's howl was the real thing. But then suddenly it was all over, by mutual consent. His tawny bottom and upper thighs were laced with lines turning red. They were welts. He eased his way up off the bench and did a little tap dance, holding his cheeks with spread hands, erection wobbling in front of him- hugely entertaining for the girls. Then he came to a halt. He hobbled around rubbing his ass. He twisted to get a look at his own bottom. "Holy cow! You girls know how to hit a fella! Look at those lines!" They bent and leant in close, reached out to stroke the welts. Willa sent Clare to get arnica and ice, some cold cream as well. Eric sat down, erection standing up out of his lap. He shuddered at the feel of his bottom on the bench. "Ouch! Oh, that hurts!" He jiggled around, from one cheek to the other before giving up the attempt, exclaiming, "Hell, after that I won't be able to sit down for a week!" He stood up. Girls focused on the sight of his shiny cock standing out and trailing fluid. They made him bend right over, hands around ankles and stick out his bottom, first for the ice, then for the cream and ointment. I thought, watching them elbow one another to comfort his red ass, how there is a nurse in every girl. Dreaming of the day she gets to tend to the private parts of a young soldier. To gently stroke and fuss the way they were now. Hie eyes had a dreamy far-off look as one of the sisters eased a block of ice around his glutes, even ventured with it inside his cleft. "How's that feel?" Willa tousled his hair. "Poor little boy." "Ohhhhh nice, real nice. More please..." And he opted for another easy laugh at my expense, "Yes, Mommy, thank you, Mommy...that's good, Mommy..." Three of them massaged cold cream into his bottom. He looked as if in a state of bliss, bent over and peering around. "Hell," said Willa. "Mom's gonna be home any minute." "Oh shit, I don't want this to stop. My bottom is stinging...but nice..." I knew the feeling from those recent paddlings. But they had been so severe it had taken me half a day before I enjoyed that warm, post-punishment glow. Karina opened the door with a creak and said, "Her car- Mom's car- is in the drive!" "Let's help the poor boy get dressed!" Willa had his jockstraps in her hands and was stretching them in front of him. For a moment it looked like his erection would poke her in the eye. Her eyes were goggling at the close-up view of the ventral side of his shaft. Another one of the girls hovered with his gym shorts. He seemed reluctant to end his nudity. "We gotta do this again!" The girls were eager. "Yeah, where? When?" "My folks are always out at parties. Most nights." "Okay,"said Willa. "Only next time we'll be trying a folded belt...and spanking you over our knees..." She looked greedily at his tented shorts. Seemed to be thinking of that hefty erection pressed at her crotch. "Over the knee? With a belt?" And Eric did some comic hopping on the spot, rubbing his bottom. "Ouch! Ouch! That's gonna hurt real bad! Ouch! Ouch!" "Quick! Mom! She's home!" Their revels were ending. Eric charged off to collect his bike and pedall away, the girls retreated indoors. Inside my shorts my hand was sticky with my cum. I stepped off the sawhorse and sat on it. There was a lot to think about. To start with, the erotic relish of the girls, no longer even pretending to be sweet maidens. Wild-eyed with desire for the young body-builder with his plastic-framed glasses. And Eric, so eager to lose his clothes, stepping into a new role as full-blooded exhibitionist, even parting his ass-cheeks to thrill them, and himself. Erect throughout, loving every second. Paddling I'd experienced but the use of whippet-thin switches was a revelation, lacing his globes with fine welts like tram lines. But the way he enjoyed being punished; what was that the right word for that? He relished being punished. There was a word for it. In their same way I was longing to be spanked by Dad. He would ask me to undress while he sat there, on the edge of the bed. He would watch as I shyly peeled off. I would be trembling with excitement and I would be as hard as wood. I wouldn't be embarrassed when he glimpsed my erection. I wanted him to see it, feel it. He would make me lie over his knee. Press into his thighs. Would he use the family paddle? A folded belt? A hair brush? Would he leave marks? Would he make me stand while he inspected them? I was stiff again. My mind was a jumble of erotic yearnings, half-formed. Would I have enjoyed punishing Eric? Switching his bare back-side? Perhaps after we ventured nude into a forest glade just beyond our tent and the lake, making him lie down on a log, a folded towel to protect his stiff cock? If he, like me, suffered Physique Pictorial-instincts did that mean he would relish this prospect? Then there was the matter of his tawny buttocks. This was another lingering mystery out of today's ribald events. Where was Eric sun baking nude? Without telling me? I resolved to become a detective. Two days later doing push-ups in my room I overheard a sister in the corridor answer the phone and call, "It's Mister Compton...the coach...for Dad!" Coach Compton had a reputation among boys at William Henry Harrison High. Some said he was "queer." He was certainly a fanatical body-builder and the most muscular guy in town. Some gym guys said his muscles were as good as Jack LaLanne's. For his own part Coach was a fan of the champion Harold Adducci and once took photos of the young model from a locked desk drawer to show Eric and me- this dark muscle man with the flattest imaginable stomach and a posing cup that hung forward just enough to show off the timberline of black pubic bush. We goggled at the pictures coach pushed across at us. Harold Adducci wrestling Paul Labriola, another champion body builder; naked back to camera clenching his back and his ass, on a rock in the sun; Harold Adducci posing in a studio in profile seated on the ground, his cup looking like it was going to fall out of his groin anytime. My heart had pounded as we shuffled through the photo pack, under the cunning gaze of Mr Compton. He must have noticed how my eyes- I guess Eric's as well- had glowed with prurient awe at black and white images of two young body builders wrestling, limbs intertwined. When we had to leave his office both Eric and I were erect; I absorbed the revelation about my friend without saying or thinking anything, For his part Coach Compton entered competitions and enjoyed being nude in swim class. A teacher could have worn shorts but the coach shucked down just like the boys who practised and competed naked. We all noticed he shaved and trimmed his pubic hair- I guessed to fit into the posing straps he pulled on for his muscle contests. And because his tan was perfect, his muscular glutes golden and glowing and his groin displaying no trades of white, we whispered that he must have gone to nudist colonies. Wow! But what subjected him to rumor was his short, flat peroxided blond hair, brushed forward and the fact he lived with his mother. He swam and worked out at the St Paul Y most nights, stayed in the steam for an hour. Which was where, I guessed, he had become friends with my father. "Hi Gordon, ole buddy! We gonna get together? Yeah, its been some time. No, been travelling...sales push...Chicago...but kept up the training...the Y there is well set-up and pretty friendly...Ha! Ha! Ha!...yes, very friendly...Ha! Ha! Ha!...You'd be proud...oh yeah?...yeah?....yeah?...well, me too...so, when do we see one another...Saturday?...your place?...in this weather, you bet...been a great summer so far...looking forward...afternoon? Two? Two would be great...oh, I know! I know!..." And here he lowered his voice. Unless I had had my ear pressed to the door I would not have heard. "...no need for a swim suit." It was almost a whisper. "Just fellas together! Ha! Ha! Ha!" In the Y for the next three days Eric went without swimming or showering. Clearly shielding the marks on his bottom. He made one reference to the girls: "Those sisters and cousins of your's are real fun." And looked off in the distance, slyly. Thinking of being stripped and whipped no doubt, of having them inspect his cock and asshole. "Come, let's hit the weights!" At home on Wednesday night there was static hovering around the girls. They were edgy and restless. After dinner, while I watched Bonanza, I heard them slipping outside, one by one. When I got up to peep from the kitchen window I saw two vanishing through the back gate into the laneway- with one of those switches in hand. At the same time I heard the front door click shut as the others silently took off into the street. My mother, over her bourbon, directed her glazed, hypnotised look at the TV and did not blink when I said I was going to my room. Within seconds, though, I was on my three-gear racer bike taking a circuitous route to Eric's place on Cleveland Boulevarde. I waited across the road, in the dark shadows of an elm, as four of the girls led by Willa panted into sight and, taking glances left and right, moved not to the front door but to the side of the house...and vanished into the dark. I entered the front garden and tip-toed after them, sticking to the shadows in the trees and emerged in the rear garden, all dark but with light emerging from a room I knew to be Eric's. Yes, his parents were out, so the rest of the house was unlit. Then two of the girls emerged from the back gate, one holding the switch. I stepped back into the shadows. They knocked at the door and someone unseen admitted them. When they were inside I moved cautiously across the lawn, looked to the bedroom window- where heads could be seen moving around- and picked up a trash can and repositioned it, in the thick shadows of trees and shrubs. Like a circus acrobat preparing to walk on wire I climbed up and found my balance. I had a near-perfect view of Eric's room. On the walls, photos of body builders, wrestlers, lumberjacks; on the top shelves, sports trophies (swimming and basketball); and model battleships, including his most prized, the Japanese Yamoto. He was standing in his Clark Kent glasses and stripped pyjamas. His brown hair looked fresh and floppy; I gained the impression he had just bathed. The girls stood around him while Karina seemed to be in the process of lecturing him, waving her finger under his nose and looking severe. I understood the game. A naughty boy was in trouble, presenting himself to be disciplined, after his bath, in his pyjamas. How long would he be permitted to stay in them? My cock stood up. The verdict had been settled on, the punishment agreed. It was going to be severe- or so it appeared. Karina stepped closer to him and began to untie the cords of his pyjama pants. His eyes were screwed shut behind his plastic-framed glasses. In a second his pants slithered to the floor. His erection poked out from under the hem of his pyjama shirt- small head, wide stem- and there was a flurry from my cousins and sisters as they pointed, gasping and giggling. Then Karina began very slowly, lecturing him as she did, to unbutton his pyjama shirt. His expression- as he stood still, eyes clenched- showed him to be in some kind of seventh heaven. One button...then the next...slowly, slowly...then another button presented a problem...fumble, fumble...the front of the shirt fell apart, showing off his breastplate chest and defined abs. The girl helped him shrug out of it. He stood, naked except for his glasses. His young weight trainer's body was nude. There was some quick fussing and he was suddenly bending over, clutching his heels, presenting his bottom. Another bit of fussing and Karina was repositioning him so his legs were spread....and his cleft flared open. There was more merriment as the girls leant close and pointed and giggled. At his little hole. And the sight of his small ballsac hanging between his legs. Aren't boys ridiculous, they seemed to be saying. Then the spanking started. In pairs the girls took turns and slapped his bottom as hard as they could, bending over to take aim. He appeared to topple forward slightly with each blow. Their strikes soon brought up a rosy glow on each bun- almost as bright as the glow on their faces, clearly thrilled by what they were able to do: strip naked and swipe the ass of a handsome young athlete. But after 10 minutes Willa produced a broad, wooden hair brush and moved in to really chastise the boy's heated posterior. Now with each well-placed blow he sprang forward slightly. I could hear nothing through the closed window but could imagine the "Ohhhhs!" and "Owwwws!" She must have really been hurting because suddenly he sprang up and frantically rubbed his bottom and tap danced on the spot. Again, to much glee from the females. They continued with the brush until they had each used it and then ordered him to stand hands behind head so they could inspect the damage and look at the novelty in his groin: a shrivelled cock. They tutted and twitted over it. Then Karina produced the whippet-thin switch. What happened next was a weird piece of ritual. She handed it to Eric and gave him an instruction. He sunk to his feet and with the switch in both hands offered it up to the girl, speaking to her...presumably, he was asking her to whip him. With the switch. Even begging. Please, pretty please. Did she insist on him calling her Mommy? Either way, Willa solemnly nodded. I unbuttoned my pants and began to finger my dick. I was glued to the bedroom drama. He went to his bed and placed himself on it, head buried in pillow. Willa advanced and raised the switch. The other girls closed in. She raised it higher. There was a pause. The tension was high; I could read it in the expectancy of their faces. These, I thought, were the girls who had been erotically awakened, in ways they had never dreamt possible, by Grandmom's account of paddling her boys, of punishing them nude. Their adolescent instincts had been quickened by the notion of naked young males being stripped and made to offer up their bottoms for punishment- punishment by females. They had seen it applied to me and enjoyed the nudity that accompanied the pain. This idea, this maternal notion, now held them full throttle. Slash! She savaged his lower glutes, right on the rise, with a force I never imagined possible. Eric responded as if electrocuted. He flew up...and back. He was suddenly up on his haunches, clutching his behind, mouth wide open. Then the girls moved in, clearly rehearsed, pressing him back down. Willa sat on his head, facing backwards. I didn't know how he was going to breathe. Karina sat on his calves, fingers pressed into his thighs. He would not be able to move. Clara had the switch. She raised it and with all her strength brought it down, tracing another white ridge, this time on the middle of his bottom. As slash after slash rained down I imagined the howls. But he was trapped. He could not buck. The other girls took their turns. The tramlines kept appearing- white ridges, turning red. This time there was no play. The naughty boy, stripped of pyjamas, was being forced to take his medicine. He was being hurt, held down, trapped. Then they stopped. Willa, sitting on his head, reached for a jar and scooped up a dollop of cream and, leaning forward, applied it to his scarred cheeks. It was a slow and lascivious movement. Then Karina got her chance, and, from her position seated on his calves, moved even more slowly. I could imagine Eric's soft weeping during this process. The other four girls then had their turns, kneeling on the floor next to the prone boy, massaging his laced bottom. Clara seemed to concentrate on spreading dollops inside his cleft. As I saw her hands at worked I recollected my own bottom massage from Dad and how he had kept his thumb jammed at my bottom hole while his hand pivoted across my cheeks. I recalled the pressure of his thumb, even the feel of his nail...while his broad, flat hand calloused from gym work rotated around my ass, bringing relief and love to my red bottom. From my position on the trash can I let fly with a rope of cum and saw it catch the moonlight while it hovered in the air. Inside I saw Eric roll over, tears staining his cheeks, grimacing as his bottom flattened against the bed cover, his prick contracted and wrinkled and sad. But the girls closed in- the six of them- and began a lavish tickling and caressing of the boy, from the soles of his feet, along the shaft of his legs, around his groin, his dick and his scrotum, his belly. Tickling and caressing and stroking. His small-headed, wide-bellied penis reared. Languorously he indicated with his hands he wanted them to touch his nipples. With pinching gestures he was encouraging them to squeeze, even to hurt. Giggling, they complied. Laughed openly, as they competed to hurt him and soon producing a faraway expression in the boy's eyes. I decided there was too much risk in lingering. I leapt down and collected my bike and trundled off into the darkness. Thoughts of my Dad stayed active in my imagination right through till Saturday lunch. The family ate hotdogs, I grilled my own NY cut with a fried egg on top and spaghetti. "That boy eats too much," grumbled my mother. "It's a body builder's diet," said Dad. "He's feeding muscle." "Well, he needs to feed his brain. The end-of-year tests..." And she was off on a lament. Dad slipped away. It was quarter to two. I heard our Oldsmobile purr out of the drive. I waited a moment, swallowing the last of my Jack LaLanne-recommended bodybuilder's meal and slipped out the back door. I mounted my racer and charged off following a carefully researched route to Payne-Phalen, the Coach's neighbourhood. In the St Paul summer humidity I was soon dripping wet. The Coach's home was in a new release area of the neighbourhood, houses built in the last few years on an old military depot. I approached wheeling my bike across a vacant lot occupied by two abandoned car bodies, straggly pines, an ash heap, broken bottles and rusty soup cans. There was the smell of a dead cat. Flies buzzed. The back fence of the Compton home was high and overgrown with thickets of arrow wood and bayberry. Dad or Mom? Ch. 02 I heard voices. Male voices. "Hold the pose, boys! Hold the pose!" "It's hard, Mister Mizer, it's hard!" "C'on, you guys are wrestlers. Grapple...grapple!" There was a splash of someone diving into the pool. I voice I knew carried up. "Abs and calves? Every day?" It was Eric. "You bet, fella. Muscles that don't tire. But the others need rest and you space the workouts. With chest, back and arms, twice a week." That was Coach Compton. "Hey, Mister Gilles, you been working that tan. You are brown all over." It was Eric talking now to my Dad. "Well, the Chicago YMCA has a sundeck. So after every workout I'd stretch out. Sun on my ass, sun on my pecker and balls." "That's cool. Like now! All stripped off in the sun!" Holy cow! My dad and Eric in conversation! About nude sunbathing. "Yeah, with the sun..." This was the coach. "...a bit each day is the best. The best way of getting that smooth, all-over, copper glow. Must be all-over. Can't stand tan lines on an athlete. Looks anaemic in a pose. Wrong image." My heart beating, I searched the fence-enveloping thicket for a space to enter and look for a hole in the timber or a way of climbing up. Then with a bit of scrambling I was able to find a hollow, crawl inside and with one foot on a thick branch elevate myself so that my nose poked just above the top of the fence, into the branches of an aged black spruce. Through the thick leaves I could see nothing of the backyard. But... ...if I hauled myself up to the top of the fence and climbed into the branches of the tree I could sit in the groin formed by a limb and the trunk and look right down into the Compton backyard. I reached up- tottered perilously for a moment- secured my hold on a branch and scrambled up. I screwed myself, like a Civil War sniper, into a secure position, the branch and trunk cupping my ass, my hold on the limb secure. I only had to push one branch to the side and a curtain of leaves parted. And I saw everything, staying unseen myself. There were Dad and Eric standing on the lawn, nude. Except for the glasses each wore: Dad's horn-rims that made him look like one of the guys in an Esquire ad, Eric's plastic-framed. And Dad puffed his pipe, which gave him an appraising look as he stood facing my naked buddy. I could see Eric's laced backside, boldly raised welts across what was now a brown, suntanned ass. I guessed they had already made light of it, that he had maybe lied and said his father had done it. Yes, that was his most likely lie. And I wondered what thoughts that might have set off in Dad's mind. That he should discipline his own son? Spank his own boy's bottom and make it welted? I hoped so. Meanwhile Eric was half erect, his small-headed, broad-beamed cock standing parallel to the ground; it pointed at my dad, seemed to accuse my dad. For his part my father was sporting a tan that was absolutely even; he was copper-toned all over his compact, muscular, hairy body. His rounded glutes were defiantly brown. And his cock- compact and stout- was pointing straight at the ground, inflated and ready to rise, while he and Eric continued their conversation. Dad's Edgeworth pipe tobacco drifted up and I could smell it, one of his distinctive odours. Closer to the pool I saw Buddy Holland, a fella from my school and a favorite of the coach. Under his blond, flat top crew cut he too was a muscle-builder and today he was showing off his physique in a low hanging pink posing strap, stretched by an incipient erection. Looked like he had shaved his pubic hair. Right next to him stood Dad's workout pal, the tall, lean guy in his 20s with the piled Elvis-style hair. I had seen him with Dad in the showers at the Y. Suspected Dad had been soaping his back. But his long, thin penis with its teapot spout overhang was bagged in his bulging G-string cup. The two guys were struggling with a wrestling pose while the photographer- I guess, this Mr Mizer- repositioned a box Brownie camera on a tripod. He was middle-aged with the physique of someone who hung around gyms but not too seriously. He too was naked and tanned. And his average-kinda prick stood out, half erect. They were now calling him Bob. Standing nude, his muscles glistening with oil, was Coach Gordon Compton, his diminutive penis- the smallest here, the smallest in swim class, the smallest in the change room- dwarfed as always by his huge physique. He was doing some kind of yoga stretch while his attention wandered between the young men posing as wrestlers for Bob Mizer's camera and Eric and Dad locked in conversation. Dad's penis has risen to be, like Eric's, parallel to the ground. The two of them nude, except for their glasses and Dad's pipe. And now erect. "Whoa! Eric, those cuts on your ass, son!" Coach Compton had decided to close in. Your father, you said..?" "Yep, that's my dad!" shrugged my friend, unembarrassed in this blatant lie. "Show us again, Eric," said my father. And the boy turned around and presented himself. Even proudly. Dad and Mr Compton moved in close. Dad took out his pipe and ran the end of it along the ridges. "Wow! He laid into you, Eric." The coach reached out and stroked. Eric seemed to shudder, his erection jerked. "Would you do that to your son, Tommy?" he asked Dad. My heart leapt. "Say yes, please!" "May have to," said Dad. "Tommy's doing pretty bad at school. Needs a wake-up." I gulped. My penis stretched. There was a slam of the fly-screen door. Stepping into the sunlight came a body builder. I recognised Harold Adducci. He was the Italianate young muscle man in the photos coach had used to tantalise me and Eric. He was black haired; his mane was swept back, wet. He was just out of the shower. His bulky shoulders were the top of a V that narrowed to a waist that could not have been tinier. His tummy was concave. Triceps defined themselves in the sunlight and the pecs were crafted breastplates off Roman body armour. His crowning achievement was the merger of his developed chest and the serrated ridges of his abdominals: one mechanism, one work of art. His thighs looked like torpedoes planted surgically under stretched olive skin. As he walked all his muscles moved in unison, clenching and unclenching. He wore a pale blue posing strap, stretched forward by its contents. "Always slow to get outta bed, this fella!" The Coach's comment dripped affection. I watched as for an hour the three young models arranged themselves in separate poses for Bob Mizer. Boys pretending to wrestle. Standing with a spear. Sitting on a stool. Dangling legs in the pool. Hauling themselves out of it. Grinning like wholesome, happy American teenagers. I loved it when Bob insisted on a shot from the rear and saw them shuck out of the G-strings and release them to casually flutter to the ground, before turning their backs to the camera. Buddy suddenly projected an erection and was commanded to swim laps to make it subside. Dad and Coach Compton looked on, Dad smoking his pipe. Every now and then one of them would unthinkingly fondle his own genitals. They were both half erect. From time to time they would whisper a comment. And then it came to Eric's turn. He pulled on a lilac posing strap from a pile on a deck chair. Manipulated a retreating erection to fit into it. Took off his Clark Kent glasses. And took his turn on the stool. "You got a nice physique bud," said Bob Mizer. "We can sure make you a cover boy. How'd you like that? Cover of Physique Pictorial?" "Those biceps and abs could get your launched into Hollywood," said my Dad. "A manly physique based on proportion and symmetry can get you anywhere." Up in the black spruce, through the leaves, peering through a drawn-back branch, I looked down like a junior god in Olympus, viewing flawed mortals locked in their stratagems and lust. The world of Physique Pictorial! I was looking at it. And I was tempted to wriggle out of my seat between limb and trunk and drop right into it. Perhaps right into my Daddy's arms. Or right over his knee. Dad or Mom? Ch. 03 Here before you is the latest episode, the story of Tommy finding his way in 1950s Minnesota. I pay tribute to my mentor and inspiration, the contributor to these pages known as Aaron Burr. Fans of his work will find references to his story Veronica Peeps. Our characters, waiting in the wings, are 18 or over, dirty minded and sex obsessed and very eager to please you. The lights dim. The threadbare curtain parts, scarlet and gold fringed. Our players enter, Tommy first. ***** I became dedicated to silence, exile, cunning. Like any spy. Sometimes my intelligence hinted the girls may be cooking something up and my antennae twitched. If I thought that, with Mom out at bridge and Dad on a sales trip, Eric might be headed to our place I made signs of going out to the Y and left the house with a maximum of racket. Then I would circle the neighbourhood on my Schwimm three-gear racer and return to the back gate and steal silently from tree to tree unseen, tiptoeing to the woodshed to mount the sawhorse and look through the ventilation block and peer down at them. I would catch Eric at the moment when, having handed his clothes over to the girls, he hesitated at peeling off his jockstrap. It was Biker brand with three inch waist band and a mesh pouch always swollen with his big confined erection. He would act as if reluctant to slide them off: "Awww! But I'm real shy! I'll be buck naked! Hell no, Willa, I'll be real embarrassed." There would be coaxing and teasing: "C'on, be a good boy...slide 'em down...just pretend we're nurses," and then, inch by inch, he would slither out of this thrilling, exotic piece of clothing (the girls loved his jockstraps and, knowing this, he always wore them.) There were many discerning comments from the girls at each stage in the slow descent: the timberline...the full bush...the base of his prick ("My oh my, what's that coming into view?")...the stretched, flattened stem ("Gosh! That's wide!")...its blue vein down the middle...then his wide-stemmed, narrow-headed cock would bounce up and out, free, pounding and erect- to much giggling and pointing and gasping. "Oh my god!" "What...is...THAT?" "So...THICK!" "Do they always poke out like that?" "Look at his little hat on the end! So...cute!" He would have to stand there, nude except for his plastic-framed glasses, while they inspected and talked about his nakedness, even probed and prodded, as long as they liked. These days Willa, my freckle-faced, plaited sister, invited a girl from school to each spanking session. Willa revelled in her power: she ran the sessions, picked which girls participated and she got to paddle and slash away at an athletic boy's naked rear. Denied the chance to strip and punish her brother she could indulge herself with her brother's friend and workout buddy. Eric was shaken at being exposed like this. "Awww! Gee, Willa! Not with Sally...no, please..." Or Veronica or Wendy or Casey. And a very plain girl with Coke bottle glasses called Olivia Pucker gave him real challenges for some reason. Eric was clearly the only boy she had ever been with close-up and she came to each session now, very excited, even drooling a little. I later saw her pay $4 to Willa after one spanking where she had been given the task of jerking Eric off- he had protested and struggled to prevent this humiliation but, her eyes swimming behind the thick lenses and a hand thick with cold cream, she had closed in determinedly. Her trembling hand reached for his joystick, she took hold, a few strokes...and whoosh! She was flushed with triumph, looking down at the pooled semen. Yet he was tremendously excited by the exposure, trembling with some nameless emotion as he stripped his clothes off knowing that Olivia and whatever other girl had been recruited- Sally or Irene or Sally, girls he sat with in class or church- were waiting to see his secrets. Even after the most severe punishment- and they were fiercer each time, especially when Olivier wielded the switch- he would quickly become erect again as the girls "Ohhhed" and "Ahhhed" over his redness and welts, applied cold cream and closed-in on his genitals to exclaim over the small head or wide stem. All this made it spring to life, no matter how hurtful his recent treatment. "Oh, look, it's standing up again," a girl might trill, as they stared at his groin. I assumed he was enormously stimulated when he produced ropes of his semen, especially for girls seeing it for the first time, splashing on his forehead or pooling in the gully between his pecs. It was a demonstration of his manhood right under their eyes. With each experience, and they were at it sometimes three times a week, it seemed the paddling and switching on his ass and thighs got harsher and he got hardier. He tolerated more, seemed to expect more. The welts were correspondingly more pronounced, the globes more violet. Their cooing over the handiwork more excited. The compensatory tickling and stroking and caressing become more heartfelt. And this treatment now climaxed, as I've foreshadowed, with Willa, my eldest sister, or Karina, my senior cousin, or one of the privileged visitors, taking a glob of cold cream, slathering it over his erection and with workmanlike strokes bringing Eric to a ropey orgasm. As his hair and face, his chest and tummy, were being splashed with hot sperm, to gasps and applause from the girls, I from my eyrie would ejaculate too, my cum trailing down the wall of the woodshed. The same would happen if I watched the scene in Eric's bedroom- me standing on the trash can in the shadows thrown by a grove of 12 elm trees- with my workout buddy being ordered out of his freshly-laundered pyjamas, bottoms first with his erection being exposed; then the top removed button by button- often by Olivia or the other recruit. I loved it when he was revealed naked except for his plastic-framed glasses and when the girls engaged in a prolonged inspection of his nude body. "See," Willa might say to a girl doing this for the first time. "That's his penis- what they call their cock. Or prick!" And the new girl would stare hard. Often a new recruit would be very interested in inspecting his balls and look on them with sincere wonder. Then he was ordered to his bed and his bottom was raised and tilted by a pillow...then the wallops and slashes, his Owwwws! and Awwwwws! and his wriggling and twisting until he had to be held down and sat upon. Then, the tickling and caressing and stroking- on every inch of his skin it seemed- followed by a sweet, quick masturbation with cold cream. Whoosh! Splop! Ropes of it shooting out. In woodshed or bedroom this tickling episode always featured games with Eric's nipples- flicking, squeezing, pinching- the boy's eyes getting glazed and distant as two girls worked at his fleshy pleasure buttons and the other four mocked: "Oh, look at the big girl! He likes us touching his precious titties!" He protested when Willa told Olivia to pinch his nipples- this mysteriously intimate contact- but the boy could not resist after her eager fingers started working. One touch, one pinch, and a girl would exclaim, "Look, they're standing up!" and he was off in never-never land. "Gurgling with pleasure" probably describes his response when girls fingered his medallions, teasing and stretching and pinching. Then came the thrilling new development: another boy being brought into the game, being humiliated in precisely the same way, but after they had dealt with Eric first. On a starry night I was standing on the trashcan in the shadows, with a perfect view of Eric's room. It was high summer so the windows were wide open. Their voices carried outside. All around, in the moist warm air, there was a scent of blooming flowers and freshly mowed grass. Crickets hummed in the shadows. My new practice was to strip completely, to fold each item of my clothing and leave it on the ground, then, stark naked and my cock as hard as timber, mount the trash can. I was secure in the deep shadows thrown by the 12 elms. I could see them but they couldn't see me. I would fondle myself as I watched the show unfold. I would stroke my own nudity as Eric's was revealed. I would flick and stretch my own petite nipples as girls squeezed his. I would feel my erection as a girl massaged his. I would time my ejaculation to match Eric's. Whoosh! Out flew my ropes of cum, illuminated in the moonlight, while his ropes splashed on his forehead or chest, or drained to his tummy. Our three cousin had gone to their home town for the holidays and Willa had recruited friends to take their place: Sally Pullen, Deborah Wickwire and that regular standby, the plain, mousy-haired Olivia Pucker. Their appearance had caused great distress to Eric. He had protested at being instructed to stand in front of them and get untrousered by Sally, a girl he sat near at church. Nonetheless, encouraged by Willa, Sally, a sassy brunette in flowering blouse and tartan skirt, advanced breathing deeply. Her eyes ablaze she tugged gently at the cord of his pyjamas, watched them fall apart and helped them down his hips. His penis had sprung out- she beamed when she caught a glimpse of it- and he had pulled the hem of his pyjama top to shield it. But Willa had moved in and quickly worked at his buttons with her practiced hand and the other sisters had approached from behind and whisked his pyjama top down his arms and right off. Suddenly he was standing in his birthday suit, with breastplate chest and washboard abs and rampant small-headed but broad-beamed erection, and the girls' stares were all over him. He couldn't look them in the eye, these girls who sat with him in class at William Henry Harrison High or on the pews of the Camphor United Methodist Church. They feasted themselves, thrilled at seeing a boy they knew completely stripped. And then he had to be punished, first, standing bent over showing off his ass and the contents of his crack. Sally and Deborah and Olivia took unfeigned delight in checking it out and Karina gave them a guided tour of its characteristics ("There, see? His little hole. Pink. See the wrinkles around it? And that raised edge? That's called his raphe...the whole area his perineum...") His humiliation at this must have been devastating. Then they had him lying down on his bed. To be paddled and slashed on what Willa insisted on calling his "naughty little bottom." Their eyes were on fire during the paddling and the switching. When it finished Eric lay on the bed, quietly moaning and hands back massaging his glutes. But cruel as his punishment had been it had been followed by a particularly warm-hearted session of tickling and stroking. At first he had protested at visiting girls Sally and Deborah being ordered to work on his nipples- he didn't like girls he knew from school and church being afforded such familiarity- but once they started he sunk into his hypnotic state. "Look, he loves it," Willa told them. "You can pinch hard, and he likes it more." I saw Sally squeeze harder, squeeze and stretch. Yes, he was enjoying it. He emitted a low, cat-like murmur. My sisters knelt, tickling his ribs and thighs. His explosion, too, had been special. Sally had slathered cold cream on his erection; again he had protested at the visitor taking the place of Willa but Sally had no plans to retreat to second place. A boy who sat with her at church each Sunday- sat on the pew a few people away, sharing the smell of cold stone and cheap flowers and the sound of "Onward Christian Soldiers"- was now lying naked before her, his cock in her palm, and she was going to exact every last pleasure from this experiment. Now after his explosion Sally was clinging to his softening penis- softening but still long- squeezing it like a toothpaste tube, watching fascinated as the last droplets emerged and joined the pool on his tummy. There was a sudden ring of the doorbell. It echoed through the house. Eric started with fear but Willa said, "Relax, big boy. We've got more visitors. A friend of ours who wants help punishing her boyfriend." She turned to her sisters and the three visitors. "Yes, girls, we've got another young athlete. Another boy to strip and paddle." The girls were thrilled by this surprise. The boy and the girl were bustled in. The girl was Veronica, a plain young woman with a homely appearance, wide hips and a figure already running to excess weight. She was a loner but very intellectual; she had a reputation for being brilliant at art, recently transferred to our school from Brewer. Someone had whispered that she used to hang around the wooded edge of the local lake where boys had swum and exercised nude, in fact exercised under Coach Compton who had taught PE in Brewer for a few terms. According to the story she had hidden in the shrubs and goggled at boys with binoculars, had done it all summer until one boy had found her and he had become her boyfriend. I only half heard the story and only half believed it. Here she was anyway with her boyfriend, Timmy, a school letterman and class president with cute snub nose who was blushing and shaking with nerves. He was handsome with auburn hair oiled and brushed back in a ducks tail style. His long eyelashes were fluttering- especially when he took in the room full of girls and the naked boy lying on his bed. He knew all of them from school and church. He gulped with embarrassment, looked at his girlfriend and muttered, "Holy cow, Veronica, ya mean...you gonna make me strip...in front of...them all?" Veronica, who held his hand, was plainly in charge. She stared quizzically at naked Eric, lying on the bed, who quickly placed his hands over his groin. She seemed to dilate on the pools of caking semen all over his torso. Then she addressed her remarks to Timmy. "Well, yes, naughty fella. It is just what you deserve and..." Here she dropped her voice. "...but what you want." He looked at the floor. She gave the instruction he dreaded. "Timmy, drop those pants." He looked around startled. "Obey your girlfriend," said Willa. "Or we will do it for you. Want to be stripped completely naked by six girls, Timmy?" No, he clearly did not. He quickly fumbled with his belt, let it fall loose and then undid the top button of his pants. He made the mistake of pausing at this point. This gave Veronica the excuse she needed to kneel in front of him like the mother of a wilful boy and quickly peck at his buttons, opening the front of his trousers and, I'm certain, enjoy the feel of his genitals... ...he was gulping with fear... ...and then draw them slowly down his legs. His trousers slithered to his ankles. "Oh, get out of those shoes and socks!" He bent over and pulled off his loafers and socks. She told him to step out of his jeans and she carefully shook them out and folded them, again like a mother undressing a son. I glimpsed a bulging jockstrap cup, just visible below the hem of his shirt. So did the six girls. Willa saw her opportunity and moved in and started on his shirt buttons. He drew back like a startled animal. But she pressed on and in a jiffy the shirt fell open. It revealed a chest and abs as defined and copper-toned as Eric's. This lent credence to the story that he had worked out all summer by the lake in the nude, under the guidance of the coach. I heard an intake of breath from the six girls. Two went behind him and took hold of his shirt sleeves. They whisked it clean off. There he stood in just his jocks. I thought his trim athlete's physique was equal to the models in Young Adonis. "Jockstraps! Just like Eric. Oh, isn't that cute! Fellas love to get around in them, like us girls love our frilly underwear!" The boy blushed, standing nude except for the underwear he loved, all males did: the net pouch that cupped his genitals, the three inch waist band and the white straps that defined his ass. Timmy was naked except for the paraphernalia of his Biker brand jockstrap. "Turn around, Timmy, show these nice girls the rear." He hung his head with shame, shuffled without turning around. "Oh, isn't that sweet! He's shy about showing his bottom!" Veronica moved close and gave him a firm slap on his left buttock. "Turn around! I'm proud of your bottom and I want the girls to see it!" Timmy hobbled in a circle and the girls closed in to admire his rounded glutes. They curved back boldly, protruded more than his upper back. Looked even stronger with the white straps dividing them. From the trash can outside I thought I had never seen buttocks as prominent and punchy. Waiting to be paddled in fact. There was a lot to admire and the air filled with Ohhhhs and Ahhhhs. "Would you like to pull his jockstrap down?" Veronica was offering the privilege to plain, mousy Olivia Pucker. Would she indeed? Olivia shuddered with prurient impulses. Her fingers danced in the air. They reached for the three inch band...and took hold. And paused. The boy flinched, screwed shut his eyes with their fluttering lashes. "Go on," encouraged Veronica. "Strip the boy," encouraged Willa. "Peel his jockstrap right down his legs," encouraged Sally. "Peeeeeel them down." "If you don't I will," said Wendy, laughing. Yes, Timmy shook. With dread. From the bed, half raised on elbows, his semen caking on his torso, Eric was stiff once more. Small headed, broad beamed, his penis had lifted from his groin hard as teak. He fingered his erection, while he looked at the scene. Olivia Pucker fastened her finger tips in the elastic band. Timmy jolted like a frightened colt at the touch of her nails. She paused and yanked firmly. Timmy's jockstrap descended down his thighs, down his calves, to his ankles. His pink-tipped penis sprang free from the pouch and bounced to a classic 45 degree erection, regulation-sized and shaped. Deborah Wickwire, the blond basketball captain, gave a lubricious wolf whistle. Which made Timmy shudder. There were oohhs and ahhhs, gasps and giggles, from all the girls. They leant in close and pointed out highlights- the defined pink bulbous glans was much admired and the cute ball sac and the neat little black pubic pelt. They liked the wide blue vein that ran the middle of his dorsal side. "Oh, look at that vein,". "Pumping away!" There were comparisons with Eric's narrow-capped, broad-beamed penis. Willa said it was "nicer" and Sally said it "had a more proportionate shape." Eric, propped on elbows, was now moving his fist vigorously along his length, enormously excited by Timmy's treatment, by the comments about his own privates. But there was teasing as well, to make Timmy even more shamed and humiliated. "Goodness, mustn't you be embarrassed? Entirely nude in front of all of us girls?" "What's it feel like to be totally...entirely...one hundred percent...stripped off?" "So your penis is stiff? What they call, erect? Is that because there are girls here?" "Anyways it's cute, real cute. Poking up and out like that." "Yes, my brother gets them- erections, hardons. We made him show us once." "Is Timmy like that because he's excited...or embarrassed?" "No, at this age they just can't help themselves." Veronica spilt the beans on her boyfriend's perversions. It was why, after all, she had hauled him here to be spanked. She told the girls that Timmy got excited at visits to drive-ins where he insisted on removing his pants and underpants and sitting naked from the waist down when the ice cream girl came and served them sodas. Even sit in the back seat with Veronica and remove every stitch of clothing while they made out. He loved the fear of being caught nude. He required her to insist that when they were home alone, parents out, he had to answer any visit by female missionaries wearing only a bathroom towel. His goal was to take a Bible in his hands and have the towel unravel with him unable to do anything. Dad or Mom? Ch. 03 "He even wanted me to hide behind the open door and give it a tug. Make it flutter to the floor while the lady and her daughter were trying to sell Bibles. Being stripped, being seen is what excites Timmy..." ...here she tousled his greased auburn hair... "...and he likes leaving his blind up at night and his light on so the ole widow lady next door, Mrs Shotover, can get to see him when he comes in from his shower and shucks out of his towel and dries himself. He makes it go on for an hour...so she gets a view every night...a real drawn-out show...and his penis as stiff as it is now!" The girls feigned shock and gave Timmy playful slaps. "Oh, a little exhibitionist!" "You dirty-minded boy!" "Showing off to the lady missionaries! To old Mrs Shotover!" He blushed like a fire hydrant. "So...now I want you to help me punish him." Girls advanced with paddle and switch. "No, I discovered another thing they hate and want to show you that first. Make this other boy stand here." Willa nodded to Eric who advanced, eyes wide behind his plastic-rimmed glasses, his broad-beamed, narrow-headed erection wobbling ahead of him. "It's called 'jiggle juggle,'" explained Veronica, and kneeled in front of the two erections. She palmed her right hand just under Timmy's tight, fuzzy scrotum. "A few light slaps..." And she delivered them to Timmy's gauzy sack. Slap! Slap! Slap! "Like that, Timmy? Give you nice feelings?" "Y...y...yes. B...b...but not too..." "Watch, girls. See his little marbles dance around. And right now he loves it." Slap! Slap! Slap! "See the balls jiggle around? Cute, hey? And he loves the feeling." "...but not too..." And before his timorous voice could get out his request Veronica gave his testicles a swap. Owww! It made the boy double over, gasping, dancing around in pain. "Awwwww! Veronica! Not too hard! You know...I...all boys...hate that!" And he tap danced, clutching his testicles. "Jesus! It hurts!" "So that's our game," said Veronica. "Some nice light slaps which drives them crazy because it feels so good on their balls which are so very sensitive and then, perhaps on the tenth, a strong one. A smack! Which lets them know who's boss!" Would they like to do it? On Timmy? On Eric? Would they like it! You've got to be kidding! Try to stop them! The six girls elbowed one another, crowded in, reached for the two testicle sacks, competed to feel the chamois softness- a little bit moist- in their palms. Competed to feel the boys tremble at their touch and then, eyes looking up into their faces, delivered dainty little hits to the soft, lightly haired sacks... Both fellas standing there, erections thrusting up and out, having their ballsacs juggled. Slap! Slap! Slap! "Wow! See the balls jiggle!" "Oh, look! How cute!" "Their little marbles...yes!" How the boys seemed to love it! Slap! Slap! Slap! The boys couldn't resist those rich, sweet feelings as their little testicle sacks were gently bounced by the palms of those mischievous girls. The two cocks were rigid, wobbling slightly with each bounce. And, yes, trailing a clear sticky fluid. "That's the way," explained Veronica. "Juggle the scrotum to see their testicles jiggle...juggle their little sacks, watch their balls bounce. Oh, doesn't Olivia love the feel of Eric's thingie! Looks like she's done it before!" Olivia beamed up at her. The fern-like odour of Eric's pubic bush filled her nostrils as she worked away. "And don't the boys love it? Look at their faces." Their eyes closed, the two looked close to ecstasy. "Okay, girl, now harder...see who can get those marbles to bounce the most!" The sharp smacks were like a jab in the guts. Eric and Timmy doubled over, tap danced and gasped and whimpered, clutching their privates. The girls fell about laughing at them. And insisted on playing "juggle jiggle" all over again. And again and again. "That's it, girls. Juggle the little sack...to see those little balls jiggle!" Veronica urged them on and watched both ballsacs get gently slapped. She caught Eric's eyes- glazed with pleasure again, darting with apprehension- and smiled. And when it was time she told the girls to deliver a smack. Deborah and one of my sisters were enjoying their turns. They struck hard. Owwwwwwww! Eric and Timmy danced around in agony, doubled over, clutching their ballsacs, gasping their protests. "Owwww! No! Boys hate that! Owwww!" "Oh God...no...no...no!" Gasp! Gasp! They played the game again and again. The consensus was that Timmy's balls had bounced the more. That the game was tremendous fun. That it gave boys nice feelings "down there" but ultimately taught them that girls were in charge. Every one of the six resolved to play the game at every opportunity, to blackmail brothers and cousins to play with them, to recruit boyfriends who would submit to their dainty slaps and surprise, punitive smacks. Finally, spanking time for Timmy. Bent over, clutching his ankles, he presented the inside of his intergluteal cleft. "See it?" Veronica asked them. "His little red hole? Cute as a button!" The girls agreed it was very cute. "Like a pussy's nose!" said Deborah who had a vivid imagination. "Does he keep it clean?" asked silly Olivia, and instantly regretted it. "Let's ask him," suggested Sally. "Hey Timmy do you..." Veronica answered for him. "Oh, Timmy's very clean. Not like most boys. He showers every day and always after sports with special attention to this spot. In fact he once asked me if he kept it very clean would I..." "NO! Veronica don't tell them that! This is humiliating!" Veronica patted the inside of his cleft. "That's alright little grasshopper. I won't tell them. That is, if you take your spanking like a real little man. Gonna be a brave Injun?" "I'll try, honest. But you really hurt my balls just then. Don't know I can take much more." Willa took the paddle. The other girls gathered as close as they could to watch his bottom cheeks turn red and Eric closed in, too, as he fingered his erection. SLAP! Timmy leapt into the air, yodelling a protest. "Owwwwwww!" Her paddling was hard and with every a strike he leapt high, stumbled forward and moaned and squealed and panted. Sally got her turn, and Deborah and Olivia; each thrilled to be taking responsibility for producing broad red splotches on Timmy's glorious glutes. And then the other sisters who struck with a licence that suggested real cruelty. Which had the expected effect: a little war dance by the afflicted boy, around and round on the spot. "Oh that dance. Its sooooooo funny. I think we should give it a name. What about, the Embarrassed Naked Boy Spanking Dance?" The girls all thought that hilarious. "Let's see it again. Over, Timmy! Bend over!" He obeyed, clutching his ankles. Willa signalled to her partners that the time for the paddling was over. She put the paddle down and picked up the switch. Eric mouthed an "Oh!" Willa raised the switch and brought it slashing down across his glutes. WHIPPPPP! Timmy's reddened bottom cheeks sent a message: new implement! He shrieked. He sprang forward and danced around but this time, instead of hopping from foot to foot while he rubbed his bottom and howled, he jogged furiously on the spot, while he rubbed his bottom and howled. He saw the switch in Will's hand. "Oh no, nooooo! Veronica, don't...not that! No! No!" Running on the spot! The girls fell about laughing. "I love the way..." Sally was pointing at his groin, choking with laughter as Timmy kept furiously running, rubbing and crying. "...his...his...his..." She was spluttering. Willa finished her sentence. "Yes, his penis and testicles fly around!" And all the six girls pointed and laughed while the boy, crying now, tears draining from his eyes, ran furiously and, yes, his genitals flew around and flew up and down. "It...is...just...soooo...funny," said Deborah, shaking her head with disbelief. "How can they have so little pride?" There were six more slashes applied to Timmy's welted bottom and six more episodes of running and leaping around and tap dancing, which made the girls laughter more and more heartily, before they left off. And switched their attention, again, to Eric. "No, not me! Not another session!" "Yes, just to give Timmy's beautiful bottom time to recover. Look how red it is. Look at the welts. Now it's your turn again. Bend over, Eric!" Oh, how the girls loved producing the funny dance and they did it again, alternating one fella with the other, Timmy then Eric, Eric then Timmy, before it was time for Timmy to stand up against the wall, his back to a huge Elvis poster, while the six girls fronted him- to caress, to tickle, and yes, to give his nipples some pinching and tweaking (Sally and Deborah volunteered for this) while mousy Olivia, very taken with testicles, insisted on crouching and fingering him down there. Around and around his "beanbag" until he jolted to a firm erection once more. That her fingers strayed to his penis knob- so well shaped and bulbous and pink- could not be overlooked. And to his stem, with the big blue vein as well. My three sisters worked at tickling his ribs and his thighs and calves. By the time they made him turn his back to work on his rear and massage cold cream into his welted buttocks (Willa taking the lead) his tears had dried and he was looking skyward like the crucified saviour, the women folk tending his wounds. Then Veronica, his plain, wide-hipped girlfriend, sat in Eric's bedroom armchair and ordered Timmy to cross the room and sit in her lap. He shuffled to her, eager to be mothered. As he lowered himself- shifting uneasily when his ravished bottom touched her lap- the two of them formed a tableaux resembling Michelangelo's Pieta. He cast one arm over her shoulder. What happened next occurred in slow motion. Veronica undid the buttons of her blouse, jerked her bra upwards and allowed a fleshy, melon-like breast to fall out, decorated as it was with an outsize rubbery nipple. The other girls gasped. Veronica might be plain but her breast was every boy's fantasy. She placed her hand on the back of Timmy's head and pressed him to her. He seemed to expect it. Like a hungry infant he applied his lips to her wide, prominent nipple...and suckled away. The girls and Eric were spellbound. For minutes it seemed Timmy slurped. Veronica patted his auburn ducks tail hair. In his lap his penis was as hard as marble, trailing fluid. Veronica looked at the goggle-eyed girls as if to say, "See, this is how to do it." And guided her big nipple back between his lips whenever it fell to one side. Slurp. Suck. Slurp. She then asked for the jar of cold cream and quickly lavished a fistful on Timmy's erect cock. The other girls leant in close. A few strokes from Veronica and Timmy exploded. Whoosh! A rope of cum splashed into his oiled, brushed back hair. a second onto his forehead, a third pooled on his chest. He assumed the look of someone who had just fallen onto a haystack from a jet plane. Or had just been fired from a circus cannon. A trail of his saliva hung between his lips and his girlfriend's breast. Girls leant in close. Deborah reached and collected droplets from his forehead and held it to her nose. "Nice and fresh," she announced and the others followed. As they fingered his cum and sniffed at the deposit he looked impassive and hypnotised. Veronica told them to give his stem a gentle squeeze. "Get all the last drops out. Can't have him go home with stained jocks!" No girl held back. My three sisters were as keen as the others; each keen to squeeze out the last drop, although Olivia- in love with testicles, obsessed with a fella's beanbag, loving the feel and the power- daintily juggled his scrotum some more. Willa brought the bacchanalia to an end, consulting her watch and announcing that Eric's mom and dad could be home anytime. For his part Eric standing outside their circle, brought himself to an explosion, his second of the night, his spray of sperm descending to the worn bedroom carpet. He was blasé. "Don't worry. It's not the first splatter they've had." The girls giggled, while they helped him towards his pyjamas and Timmy to his jockstrap and his clothes, neatly folded by Veronica. Like the perfect spy when I met Eric for workouts and swims, I hinted at none of my secret knowledge. "Aw, that's my damn dad," he said in reference to his emblazoned glutes. "Catches me at..." Here he gave the gesture for jerking off. Which was a thrilling concept for me: Dad catches his boy playing with his teenage cock and hauls him over his knee for a broad-palmed spanking, still naked. Exciting for me, even if a brazen, confident lie from him. As we sat on the bleachers after a swim or moved through our gym routine shirtless I noticed his nipples were getting fleshier, more prominent. I had never seen wider aureole or more dart-like projections. "Hey, Eric, how come you're tanned all over?" I enjoyed getting him embarrassed about his mysterious all-over suntan. Blushing, he said he had been on a camping trip which I knew was untrue. Once he even said that when his folks were away he lay in the sun in a corner of his large back yard. "Guess I'm a natural nudist. I like sun on my bare ass. You gotta try it." "And I see from your marks your Dad's still paddling away..." He grinned, blushing. He fingered his welts, little knowing I'd seen them being produced in his bedroom last night. "Yeah, well...my Dad..." Here I thought I'd throw out a line. I took a breath and added: "...bet you're getting to like it...your dad spanking you...on your bare bottom..." He looked shocked. "Whaaaat?" "Bet you are getting to like it. Getting spanked by your Dad." His face now took a sly expression. He liked the chance to talk dirty. "Well, kinda. It hurts at the time...but after it stops stinging it leaves a fella with a warm feeling...warm all over...hard to explain...and getting stripped off...well, you know me...natural nudist and all..." Here he assumed an "Aw shucks" demeanour. "...Dad likes to spank me nude, you know...over his knee..." We were stark naked now ourselves, seated on the bleachers after a swim, the pool area of the Y otherwise empty. His penis lengthened, brown band around its thick middle. Mine stretched and stood right up. This time I didn't cover it with my towel. I saw him stare. His own stretched some more. Then his penis stood right up in his lap, like a Namibian Meerkat emerging from its burrow. Right up, as if to look around, look for prey. Nor did he feel he had to cover up. We faced one another, two nude 18 year olds, cocks upstanding. And he was off, indulging in one of his monologues. But this time I didn't find it boring, this talk about being spanked by his dad, fantasy though it was. It was my fantasy too. "...and it's all kinda nice...sweet, like...a fella over his Pop's knee..legs and arms dangling...pressed into his knees...your ass sticking up ready for punishment...showing him you can take it...and the slaps on your bottom! Wow! Those slaps..! When they come...don't you know it! Buddy, your ass is on fire! On fire! Slap after slap! And you pressed into your dad's legs!" My cock throbbed. Leaked fluid. And he was looking right at it. "Slap, slap, slap it goes. And you think it'll never end. All around your ass. All around your upper legs. God, man! It stings but you love it! And for your dad it's kinda like...a way of him saying how much he cares for his fella...that's how I see it...you know..." I took a deep breath. "Yeah," I said. "Those slaps...that would be swell...real swell!" Eric beamed. His face registered an heretical thought: my pal has thoughts every bit as disgusting as mine. "Well, how are you going to get your ole man to do it to you?" He was stroking himself as he put the question. "Dunno. Thinking of failing my mid-terms. And I've missed homework...all the work-outs we do. Think it will come to a head real soon...and he'll have to go for me." I stroked myself too. Nobody else was in the pool area. "When it happens you gotta ask him to give it to you on the bare. Totally stripped preferably." His stroking got stronger. So did mine. "Yeah...that's what I'll do...tell him, Dad, I want to take it on the bare...and take off the shirt as well...get his big slaps on my naked ass cheeks...lie over his lap stark naked...naked as a jay...in my birthday suit...let him see all my new muscles..." "Yeah, pal, all over those cheeks...and on the upper thighs...slapping down on you...and you buck naked...getting spanked by your dad...your bottom red...and your legs...moving around on his lap..." We were panting now with excitement. We were close to cumming. "And know...what I'd do, pal?" "What, buddy?" Our stroking was urgent. "I'd ask him to...strip off too." The filthy thought did it. It had him and me let fly with ropes of cum, one after the other, ejaculations that reached the tiled floor and wooden seats, and left us gasping and laughing. Silence. Then... Looking over his shoulder he said, "Better get outta here." And clutching towels to our midriffs we were off, me to the change room, him back to the gym. "Gonna work my inner chest some more. And this late at night you can work out nude..." "What?" "Yeah. No one else there. Or hardly anyone...sometimes Coach Compton...it's real cool...lying on the bench, doing my flys or incline press. With no clothes...cock flopping on my tummy...and anyone gets to see my all-over tan..." I left him there leering and veered off to the showers, thinking that Eric was sexually charged, obsessed with the subject most of the day. All of the day. As I was. In fact, a sex maniac. And I was too, enlisted like him in an underground cult devoted to erotic rituals and observances. Think of what he had been up to, with me panting in his wake: being paddled and caressed by the girls, brought by them to a big climax in woodshed and bedroom; going naked around Coach Compton's pool with handsome Physique Pictorial models; dreaming of being spanked nude by his dad and masturbating with his buddy to the fantasy...and, all this under his belt, off for a late night nude workout in the malodorous Y gym. Because of the opportunity of being nude some more, in the company of men. Having his tanned groin admired, his lats, his pecs. Sex maniac. Sexual mystic For some reason the educated expression popped into my head. From where? Who knows? Sucked up from idle reading- Readers Digest in the living room, a volume of Eastern philosophy off the library shelf? Overheard schoolgirl conversation with Freudian jargon? As I walked down the narrow corridor to the change room I became aware of the measured tread of bare feet padding behind. I looked over my shoulder. He was a coffee-coloured Negro. Long and lean as a greyhound. His hair was frizzy and tinged with grey. He may have been 50 or 60, older than Dad, yet his tummy was as flat as mine, concave in fact. He might have been an Olympian sprinter, leanly muscled. His biceps looked outsize given his taut, wiry frame. Between his thighs swung a mahogany penis, salami-like, uncircumcised with welts and webs of veins, a spectacular network of piping- a motherload running down the middle, his deep dorsal vein, pulsing and inflated like some industrial duct, with veins and arteries fanning from it, subdividing the chocolate skin, diversionary tracks leading to glans, prepuce, base and scrotum- a shaft so thickly veined it was a road map, battlefield guide, work of art. Dad or Mom? Ch. 03 He put an arm across my shoulder as we walked. "While I do claim my share of the magic dust, my young grasshopping friend- did I hear correctly, your name is Tommy? Yes? Well, my dear young Tommy, your conversation out there with the bespectacled body builder boasting his all-over tan and the tramlines on his delicious ass was delivered to my portals- word for word, with perfect clarity- not by legerdemain but a trick of those acoustics of beat-up, cheapjack old buildings of this type." I gulped with fear. Fear- and a deep sense of predestination. Of augury. As if I might be falling under a spell. "Yes, lying half awake on the benches behind you, after my own workout, I heard every word of your intimate exchange with...Eric? Yes, Eric. That would be Eric Boone, if my intelligence is correct." I gulped and stumbled. His arm, corded with veins and sinewy muscle, rested on my shoulder. "My name is Pastor Professor Remus T Corcoran and it is in your interests, Tommy, you get to share my hard-won insights." He pushed open the large swinging door to the male change room. My nostrils filled with the smell of damp tiles, stale sweat and liniment. It was empty, nobody in the showers or drying themselves on the benches, no athlete admiring his physique in the mirrors, surreptitiously flexing. Nobody taking a furtive look over his shoulder to check who had just come in. There were no towels draped on the pegs outside the steam room with its growls and hisses. Towards its frosted glass door I was now being steered, the professor's hand- or was it the pastor's- on my ass, guiding me to this forbidden, dangerous cave, this young Christian sanctuary. He opened the door, releasing the acrid vapours. The steam stung my eyes. "Sometimes I imagine we enter here a whole subterranean world that links St Paul YMCA with every steam room in every athletic club and Y across America, a veritable Dantesque underground from which we may mount stairs to the Everard- or "Ever-hard"- in Manhattan, or the Lafayette. Or turning West, up stairs to the Embarcadero YMCA in sight of the fabled Golden Gate." His fingers spread over my left glute, firm and possessive. His calloused thumb strayed into my cleft, pressed at my hole. Under my bundled towel I was already erect. We entered the steam. It was my introduction to Remus Corcoran- pamphleteer and pornographer, author of The Indestructibility of the Erotic (banned in Boston in 1946) habitué of gyms and nudist colonies, food faddist and Yoga teacher, sexologist and Kinsey researcher, apostle of bisexuality, gifted spanker, cock-sucker and cunnilingist, seducer of wrinkle-breasted older ladies and muscly Physique Pictorial models, pioneer of the sexual uses of the male nipple, senior lecturer in observational astrophysics at Berkeley, one-time Birmingham, Alabama male prostitute specialising in "plantation sexuality," former Pullman porter and Caribbean traveller extraordinaire. Expelled with fanfare from the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People because of "immoral behaviour." He purported to be a warlock and spiritual adviser and authored articles on Haitian voodoo for anthropological journals. All this I would learn. He would be the most important influence in my life. As sexual mystic he would give Eric, my work-out buddy, a run for his money any day of the week. The door of the steam room closed behind us. The mephitic vapours tickled my skin. I felt fingers touch my ribs, finding their way. Dad or Mom? I flicked pages, rummaged volumes- there may have been a dozen. My heart started skipping beats. One immediate explanation was that my Dad was a fitness and sports fanatic. He worked out at lunchtime or after work at St Paul's Athletic Club. He said he loved to "take steam" there and at the Downtown YMCA in Cedar Street. That was where, going to compete in a basketball game six months ago, I saw him in the showers after a steam. He had seemed embarrassed as he stood with a friend a few years older than me, a boy with a fish-white body and piled, slicked-back Elvis hair; I remembered his penis had been narrow and knee-length with a tapering, wrinkled overhang that looked like a tea pot stem or an illustration from a medical text. They had been standing side by side at adjacent shower nozzles and there had been a hint that Dad, holding soap, had just finished scrubbing the youth's bent-over back. A minute later, by the benches and lockers, Dad had flicked me with a towel and said, "Healthy mind...healthy body, that's what drives us, hey bud?" He sounded a little hollow. I sensed he didn't want me to mention to Mom he had been swimming nude at the Y baths, sweating in its steam room and showering with a handsome younger buddy. Over his shoulder that young man looked at me with a sly smile while he dried his privates. For my own part my feeling had one name and it began with J. I had flung this encounter with Dad from my mind like a catcher flinging a ball...until now. Opening a Grecian Pictorial Guild I knew I was lost. I knew I had to take it to my room, secret it among my Popular Mechanics. And knew something, in a flash, about Dad. The page seven photo was in black and white. It was an outdoors shot. Taken on the edge of some California drylands. The pecs on the young model swooped in perfect half circles, and then swung upward to carve an incised trench up the middle of his chest. A set of nipples looked perfectly planted, there on hairless breast plate muscles. They were bold medallions, sure to be brown and they riveted my attention until I lowered my widened eyes to his abs. Jeepers! His tummy was concave and carved into six squares. A big bold vein ran down his bicep...the sight of it made me go weak in the knees and that was before I settled my bursting eyes on the rounded bulge cloaked by the white G-string. The shape of his penis head was traced, the outline of one round testicle too. I took in the flaming muscles of the thighs. The long, elegant masculine feet looked as if created to creep along savannah hunting trails. He was perfectly tanned. Maybe he did hunt nude. His name was Tabby Anderson, a Bob Mitzer model. The notes said he was a dedicated weight trainer, headed for championships. My knees knocked. My heart pounded. I tried to cover my tracks as well as I could, restoring the strata of magazines, the gamey discoveries- the physique mags- on the bottom. But I greedily purloined another two. One was a Physique Pictorial with a picture on page four of a rough looking blond called Jim Young in swept back hair with a broad muscular body and bold candy-stripped G-string cup. The other mag was called Young Adonis with a picture on page 10 of a Don Tonry, perfectly nude. But his pose met the censorship code, no penis was revealed: he was on his knees, hands on hips, one leg in front, sheltering his groin with his thigh. He was my age, lean as a greyhound but broad shouldered, with blond hair in brushback haircut. The sole of his raised left foot was darkened by the sooty studio floor. "Don is a paragon that all slender men (with broad shoulders) should aim for," read the text. "It would be a tragedy if some physical cultist told him to bulk up." That night under my blankets, with my torch, slender Don Tonry would be forced by an angry Dad to hand over his white t-shirt, blue jeans and faded boxer shorts- he yielded them up, protesting and close to tears- and be marched out stark naked to be thrashed, bent over the front bonnet of the family station wagon, while his sisters and their friends giggled and gasped, and neighbourhood Moms looked on and said, "Oh My!" And well-built Jim Fraser working on his bike in a greasy garage, looking like a parolee in his first post-release job, would lower his candy-stripped G-string revealing a stout erection. Then he would sit on a stool and haul his buddy, the young body builder, Tabby Anderson, over his knees and lay into him, broad-handed slaps, one after the other on his muscular, suntanned bottom... The pin-ups came to life, recruited to the roles I handed out. The next day, after school, I went to the Cedar Street Y and enrolled in the three times weekly "Spring Program for Introductory Weight Training: For Strength, Posture, Confidence." Coming down the steps of the old building I elbowed my way past young body builders, chests bursting at their shirt buttons, headed for the weights room. This would be my life too, from now on; I might even get to count some of these square shouldered young men as buddies. I then skirted downtown newsstands and, when the coast was clear, took a deep breath and with a shaking hand offered 75 cents for the May edition Physique Pictorial. A blond youth looking like a choir boy posed under a horse hair-crested Roman helmet. His G-string stretched at his groin. I would become one of these models. I would one day make the cover of Young Adonis. Dad might accompany me to the studio for the photographs. Meanwhile my grades hovered over my existence. Five nights later, with Dad at a sales conference, Mom was attending a parents' night at my school, William Henry Harrison High. The girls were in their rooms. In fact all crammed into the room of my oldest sister. I was half watching Ed Sullivan. But dreading a number of developments. First, the relentless teasing of the girls that had now taken a bad turn. They told me, when Mom was out of earshot, that Grandmom had sent her paddle in the mail and Mom had allowed the girls to inspect it and play with it and, as its custodians, they would produce it anytime I was in trouble. Second, they kept teasing me with a very specific possibility: me being paddled over the fender of our station wagon. By Dad. With them watching. "And you'll be completed nude!" taunted my sister. I shivered at the prospect. Third, parents night. What if the reports on me were bad? Would Mom feel that with Dad away she had to punish me? In the nude? With the girls watching? I hardly followed the Ed Sullivan gags and musical numbers, slumping on the sofa. I heard the car in the drive. Mom was home, with teachers' reports on my performance. She came in the door. She looked furious. "Well..." She shook with anger. "I have had it with YOU! You never learn and you never care. I was so embarrassed hearing from teacher after teacher that you need to try harder! Yes, the same every year!" Her verdict was fast. A spanking. By her, of course, with Dad away. I followed her to the bedroom, past the bedroom where I glimpsed the girls hopping with excitement and suppressing laughter. Mom sat on the bed and pointed angrily to the space in front of her. "Stand here!" I did. "Well?" She pointed to my belt. "Down! You don't think I'll punish you with your pants on do you?" I loosened my belt, undid the top button. But froze. "Aw! Mom! Not...not...with..." "GET...THEM...OFF!" I quickly slithered my pants down. "And we'll have those down too!" She was pointing to my boxer shorts. "Awwwww! Mom, I'm 18!" She assumed a determined, hateful expression. She reached out and seized them at the hem. Terrified of an awful humiliation I clutched them at the elastic band. I was only wearing a T shirt and it was short. "Let go!" she demanded and pulled furiously. I released my grip.The boxers descended to my ankles. She told me to step out of them. There was a second where she could see everything. Her eyes flared. I could tell she savored this opportunity of looking at her teenage son's developed genitals. I threw my hands in front. She slapped them aside. "Don't cover up!" And stared. There is a special, gut-chilling humiliation for a shy 18 year old male having his cock and balls inspected by his mother. She looked a long time. Her eyes roamed all over my groin. Then she reached out with both hands and- to my horror! - threaded my public bush as if examining for lice or rabies. Hell! She was parting a curl...stretching it...pressing hard in my pubic bone! Then she fingered another section just to the left - threading, stretching, pressing- and moved to the right, her stretching and tugs becoming more powerful. She stopped but continued to stare quizzically. Then... ...to my distress... ...reached out... ...and took hold of my scrotum and stretched it, grazing the stem of my penis. Pinching it, as if to test the plasticity of the scrotum...like testing a bit of material she was going to buy. She stared hard. Then took hold of another fold, grazing a testicle. "Aww! Mom!" My penis was stretching. My voice was reedy and unconvincing, a little boy's. "Just looking...just looking." She let go. Pause. And then... ...reached out... ...and took hold of my penis head, lifted it and squeezed. As if to test whether there any secretions loitering in the urethral opening. "Mom!" She let it fall back. It was stiffening. "Now bend over!" Ignominiously I did, relieved. "Grasp your heels!" I felt how deeply I was exposing my bottom. And felt her hands tugging my shirt half way up by back. I felt the air around my exposed midriff. Then... WHUMP! Her hand descended and struck. On my right cheek. WHUMP! This time on the left. I wobbled slightly... ...but her hand lacked real punitive power. In fact a thrilling sensation flooded my bottom...and my groin...as again her hand struck my flesh. WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! All around my cheeks. On my upper thighs: a sweet, all-over sting. Clearly she would be staring right into my cleft. Not hurting, not remotely. A slight sting...a buzz...a flush... ...not hurting. But quickly making my penis inflate completely. WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! Around the circuit again, and again. My erection wobbled with each new blow. It was... ...nice... ...and I willed her to continue. But she was aware I was not being punished. "Oh this is hopeless!" she exclaimed, and stopped. I hung low, exposing my bottom hole and my flushed backside, my hot and reddened cheeks. My penis throbbed out of sight. I wondered what would come next. "Oh, this is hopeless. Straighten up...and go and ask your sisters for Granny's paddle. Go on, right now...next door...in their room!" Whaaaaat? I half stood, looked round for my shorts and pants. She held them up. "Oh no, I'm keeping these. You go just as your are!" Was there a hint of a grin? I begged and spluttered. "Oh Mommy..!" The infantilism burst out. "...no! Not like this!" "Do it or you stay like that for the rest of this evening!" I struggled to shield my rock hard erection. Her eyes were on my groin. The penis head was under the shirt, the rest of the apparatus covered by my hands. "Tommy, I am going to punish you with Grandmom's paddle. She sent it as a gift for your sisters. They have it. In their room now. You, son, will go and fetch it...just as you are. Or..." She appeared to think this through. "...or you go without your T shirt as well!" Which would mean going to visit them and ask for the paddle completely naked. "Go...and...get it!" Mom's determination was fierce. I was wearing just my white T shirt and my sneakers. My bottom burning red and on display. With a stubborn teenage erection half hidden by my hands and the front of my shirt. Not a dignified position for an 18 year old fella with a tribe of female sisters and cousins giggling in the next room waiting for me to come in and ask them for the paddle. "Awww! Mom!" I pleaded. "Or...you can surrender that T shirt and go and get it...yes, in your birthday suit." The contempt- for me, for males in general- steamed off her. I backed away, to the hallway, both my hands tugging the front of the shirt downward to shelter my boner and trying to hide what Dad would call "my dangling Gilles family ballsac." My stomach was afire with butterflies. Maybe... ...maybe I could just poke my head in sister Willa's bedroom door and beg for the paddle...shelter in the hallway...be at their mercy? And maybe what mothers always told us was true- girls are just not interested in seeing what fellas are like "down there." Nice neighbourhood girls like these won't want to see a boy's shameful secrets- his sausage-like cock, its funny decorative head, the weird scrotum and balls inside. No, nice, sweet, church-going St Paul girls won't want to see that dirty stuff, whatever they say when they tease me about getting spanked naked. Willa's bedroom door was closed. I knocked. "Willa?" My voice quailed with fear. Silence inside. Then suppressed giggles. There were six of them. Then in an artificially sweet, cooing voice, "Why, Tommy? What a surprise!" "Willa...can you come here? Please?" "Oh you silly boy! The cousins want to see you! You've been watching TV all night. Wouldn't join us, your sisters and cousins. Anti-social as usual. But we all want to see you...just come in." "No, Willa, I can't. I've...got...nothing...on." "Nothing on? Oh, you silly boy! That means they really want to see you now!" There were giggles. Suddenly the door was wrenched open and Willa appeared, her eyes blazing, and grabbed me by the arm and hauled me into the room. "TOMMY! Oh my God! You have no pants! Or underpants! And you look like you've been crying!" The other girls leapt up, from where they'd been lounging with magazines, on the floor and bed. "Tommy Gilles! With no pants! Oh you naughty boy!" "Tommy! Oh, if the girls in your class could see you now!" "Our big brother! Almost...naked!" "Tommy! We can see...well, nearly everything!" "Whaaaaat? And no underpants? Tommy, where are your boxer shorts? You are just about in your birthday suit!" They fell about laughing. Willa spun me around. "Look! Look! Look! His bottom's all red!" "Ha!" said Karina, the cruelest of the cousins. "He can tug his shirt down in front but that means we can see all his bottom!" And she ran her fingers over it. So did the others, with oohhs and aahhs. Six hands exploring my buns. Jeepers! The humiliation! "Oh, gosh, he must be soooooo embarrassed!" "It's hot!" "Please...don't...please...don't touch my...bottom..." "But why? It's a nice, tight little ass." "A real boy's bottom." "And so red!" From outside came my mother's insistent voice. "What's the delay? Where is it?" "Goodness, I wonder what Mom means?" Tugging the front of the T shirt as hard as I could I said, "She wants me to bring her the...the...paddle." "Oooooh! I see, the paddle! Grandmom's paddle. Well...I can tell you where it is. And you can get it." What did this mean? Was this a trick? "It is up there." Willa pointed to the top of the cupboard. "On top. At the back. Of the top. Of the cupboard. Way back." "Yes," said Karina. "None of us likes heights. So...you'll have to get up on the chair and reach waaaaay back. Here, we'll hold the chair for you." "But...but...I've got...no pants!" Willa looked uncomprehending. "Yes...and..?" "Well, you'll see...you'll all see..." "Yes?" "...everything. Up on the chair. If I gotta stretch! You'll see...everything." They looked at my front where my hands were desperately tugging my short front down. They may have glimpsed part of my dangling scrotum. Or the outline, in the stretched white fabric, of the underside of my stubbornly rock-hard erection. And the sculpted glans. If they did the six girls said nothing. They just smiled, like Cheshire cats. From her room came Mom's furious voice, "Bring me that paddle now! Or I'll strip you buck naked and let the girls watch as I give you the spanking of your life! And you can get by without clothes for the rest of the week, until your Dad gets back!" I lurched for the chair. Bending over to shelter the view of my midriff I quickly moved to stand it next to the cupboard and, tugging the shirt front again, stepped up onto it. The girls moved in to surround the chair. I could feel their breaths on my bare legs they were so close. "So, now you'll have to reach up and stretch. To find it. To find the paddle." "Awwww! Willa, can't you..?" My voice was weak and reedy. "No." The view was final. But when I stretched... ...my shirt front would climb... ...my erection would spring out... ...and they would see... ...everything... ...every inch of it (just under six) and every vein, plus the shape of the corona, the mottled pink of the mushroomy glans, the folds of the scrotum, the wiry hair, the shape of the balls inside... ...everything. I would have no secrets left. From my sisters and girl cousins and, when they finished with it, very girl at school and in the neighbourhood. What I looked like down there. Came Mom's voice again: "In five seconds...I'm coming...to finish our business...to paddle your bottom...in Willa's room!" "Willa! Girls! Pleeease..." "Please what?" "Please...don't...don't...don't..." "Don't what silly?" "Don't...look. Don't look at me." I knew how pathetic I sounded. How infantile, reduced to boyhood. "0h, shy little boy! Don't worry, fella. We'll just hold the chair for you...and shut our eyes. Won't we girls?" They nodded and hummed their agreement. I let go of the shirt with one arm and stretched up, trying to reach the back of the top of the cupboard. Found nothing except thick dust. Fished around some more. For one awful second my prick sprang out of the shirt, revealed itself, until I tugged the hem to cover up again. I thought I heard a suppressed giggle and a stifled gasp. "I...I...can't..." "Can't find it? It is way back. You will have to use both hands." But if I used both hands I knew what would happen to the shirt. It would sail right up my trunk, showing off everything. "Promise you won't look?" "Of course we won't look! Do you really think we want to know what you- a spotty teenage boy- looks like down there? You must think we're mad. I mean, what a joke, girls?" "Yes, what a joke!" "See what Tommy looks like down there! Ridiculous!" "I mean one of the heartthrobs, one of the big jocks, one of those tall fellas, might be a different story!" "But our little brother!" "Our spotty faced cousin!" "You gotta be kidding!" I took a deep breath and let go of the shirt and stood on my tip toes and with both hands stretched. My shirt shot up, further and faster than I expected. I felt the air on my erection as it sprang free. If they opened their eyes they would see everything! I rootled desperately around the top of the cupboard. There were loud gasps and giggles. They were looking. In a low whisper my cousin Vera exclaimed, "It's...it's...sticking up!" "It's...stiff!" "They call that a hardon. Like...hard. Hard, get it?" "And that funny...hanging...what is THAT?" "Isn't that what they call their 'balls'?" "Yes...gosh! Jeepers! Look there! He's got two balls in there...you can see them!" "Balls!" "Yes! Sooooo...that's why they call them..." "Balls!" "Look! There!" And then they gave up whispering and addressed their remarks to me. "Tommy, we can see your hardon!" Dad or Mom? "We can see your balls!" "God, he must be embarrassed!" Suddenly Mom was at the door. Furious. She, too, with one glance could see my secrets. I gave up the search and returned my hands to tugging down the shirt front and protecting myself from their gaze, too late. "What is going on here?" "Oh," said Willa. "For some reason he insisted the paddle is on the top of the cupboard when all the time it's over here!" She pranced across to her bed and lifted the pillow and produced Grandmom's paddle: faded vanish, hard wood, terrible history in respect of young male backsides. Nude backsides. Mom whisked it off Willa and reached up and pinched me by the ear and hauled me down. "Well, he's gonna feel it. Now." She seated herself on the bed and pulled me across the room. Stood me in front of her. "You don't like it, do you? Being naked. With your sisters and cousins looking. About to get the spanking of your life. Well, you will have to start thinking. In future, if you wilfully...deliberately...neglect...your studies this is how I will punish you..." And she delivered the awful verdict. "...yes, punish you. Just like your Grandmom punished your father when he was young!" There was an intake of breath from the girls. "So... "...right now... ...hand over that T shirt!" Hell! "But Mom!" "Right now! Off with it!" The girls were almost dancing with excitement. And why wouldn't they? I slowly took the hem of the shirt...and pulled it up...up and...over my shoulders...and off... I was stark naked. And, as it happened, throbbingly erect. They were all looking. I handed the T shirt across to Mom. A whisper from my cousin Karina, "Look, he's in his...birthday suit!" The disgrace of that always comic description wilted me to the core. "Birthday suit." "Yes, he's nude all right,"said Mom. "Just like his Dad at the same age. Being punished by his mother. They hate it, males. Just hate it." I felt their eyes all over me, that is, all over my genitals. My erection. My burst of hair. My dangling, low hanging testicles. The shape of the balls that had intrigued them earlier. Yes, Mom and the sisters and cousins were taking it all in. And jostling my feelings of humiliation arose one fervent thought: if only my Dad were here to protect me. Dad, my pal, where are you? "Lie down on your sister's bed." I obeyed, pressing my nose into the girl smells. "Now the paddle is going to hurt. Before you cry and wriggle, just think of how you've got to improve at school. And be brave, like your Dad." Later, with all the shame and humiliation, I was to remember that failure most of all. How I was not brave, not remotely, and how my tears and struggles would have appalled my father. I cried loud at the first savage assault. SPLAT! Twisted sideways at the second. SPLAT! Burst into tears as Mom pursued her circuit- SPLAT! SPLAT!- from upper thigh on the right leg to lower right glute, then to the middle of the right glute and then once more for good measure on the same searing spot and with the fifth stroke the left. Twice. SPLAT! SPLAT! In fact that was when she instructed the girls to hold me and I found them pressing down on my shoulders and upper back with their hands and, from the end of the bed, pulling my legs tight so that kicking was no longer an option. And so the circuit continued. My tears rose from the bottom of my lungs and heaved out, and through them I lapsed into infantilism. "OH NO! MOMMY! NO, MOMMY!" When she stopped- after three violent circuits with many repetitions on a suffering spot (my upper thighs, where my eggs joined my bottom, seemed a favorite) I was choking and howling and sobbing. Unable to move. The girls were silent. Awed, I guessed. Later I thought, they had been hypnotised by the lubricious wonder of it: their full nude brother being roundly paddled, on the bed before them, his bottom displayed and turning scarlet. There was silence apart from my diminishing sobs. "So...what was it your Grandmom did next?" My mother seemed to be pondering while I was stretching back and rubbing. Willa was quick with her answer. "She made them stand...with their sisters there. Remember, she thought that was part of the punishment? And Dad said she kept them that way, naked, for as long as she liked afterward. After the paddling. Remember, Dad said he hated it?" Mom agreed. "Tommy, get up. Old fashioned punishment. Maybe it'll work. Maybe you'll change. You are in a clothes-free state for the rest of the evening. Showing off your red bottom. "Into the living room, where we will all watch some TV, and you will stand against the wall..." Which meant me getting up and in their company showing off my now-limp, mottled penis and now even lower hanging balls, walking out and to the living room, rubbing my bottom all the way while the girls jostled and smirked. But... ...if I imagined I was going to be standing facing the wall... ...I was kidding myself. Mom had other thoughts. In fact she was going to be true to my Grandmom's vision. "That's right, stand. In the corner. But facing out. Hands behind your back, like a soldier on sentry duty." The girls were guffawing. I positioned myself. Back to the corner. Facing out. From this position I could see them and the TV. And they could see me, stark naked standing there. They could switch between my naked state standing there and Leave it to Beaver. A story about American boyhood, with a handsome Dad, Ward Cleaver, my favorite character. But if I thought my humiliation was at an end...again, I was mistaken. There was a lot of whispering. A reference to "balls." Giggles. A reference to how low they hung. Some pointing. More giggles. Mom silenced them with a stern look. Meanwhile Beaver Cleaver and his brother Wally were up to their cute tricks. I stood, looking ahead, avoiding the eyes of the six girls. The pain began to recede, just slightly. A warmth spread around my middle. Blood flowed, arteries pumped. In the half dark, in the flickering blue light of the TV, I became aware that my prick was inflating once again. A thickening. A lengthening. A stretching. Jesus, I thought! It was jerking upwards, lifting from the balls, always the point of no return. Jerk! Stretch! Jerk! I was pointing, parallel to the floor, and even in the dim TV light they could not miss it: I was erect. There were giggles. I screwed my eyes shut. With two more jerks my penis jolted upwards to point up and out in the classic position. Karina was collapsing in guffaws. Willa was rolling her eyes. "Mom..?" It was sister Sally. It was clear what she was going to ask. "Yes," Mom snapped back. She had a drink in her hand. "Tommy's got an erection. An erection- that's what it's called. It is when their penis stands up. Pathetic. Something you'd expect in a 13 year old. He should be able to control himself at his age but he can't. Along with all his other problems he is shockingly immature. Bad at school. No dating. No social life. And unable to control his dirty little boy's instincts. Just ignore him because he's going to be there for the rest of the evening." At this moment her contempt for her naked son became something else: a contempt for the whole male species. And it said something, I sensed, about her relationship with Dad. Nothing was said to him about his son's punishments when he was away on his trips. Always when he was away- no punishment was visited on me by the females when he was around. Mom and the girls had obviously resolved to keep my punishments secret. For my part I could not bear to share my humiliation with him. So I compensated by swimming at the Y and working out in the body building class and, on every other day, training with weights on my own, straining and pumping away in the damp and rust of its old industrial-style gym. Each day I raided Dad's body building cuisine- like the chopped liver he stored in the fridge or his untreated almonds and pistachios. Every morning I was up early grilling my own New York cuts to take for school lunch and wolfing down six eggs at breakfast. Whenever I could I would break two eggs into a brimming glass of full cream Minnesota milk and swallow it in a few big gulps. "Hey, bud, you're gettin' big!" The voice was Eric Boone's, also 18 and from my school, always at the Y. He had floppy brown hair and wore glasses with transparent, plastic frames. Broad shouldered, lean and tall he was on the way to sculpting a Greek god build. For no apparent reason he had adopted me as a weights' room partner. Perhaps with the serene confidence that comes from being so good looking. Of having no insecurities. Sometimes he spoke about his ambition: to become a champion lumberjack. At these moments he would also strike me as a little stupid. But it was an honor to luxuriate in his attention. We stood in the old gym which smelt of sweat, rusty metal, liniment, damp old masonry. "Look at those pecs..." And he punched me playfully on the chest "You piled on an extra pound or two there alone. Big chest!" "Gotta long way to go, I reckon." I was bashful whenever any male talked about my body. "You're getting a V shape," said an old gym regular and gestured with his two hands to sketch my new torso, wide at the top and tapering to a tiny waist. It immediately gave me an erection, especially when the remarks came from a tall, good looking fella like Eric clearly above and beyond my league. We exercised bare-chested and in our bare-feet. The only light streamed in from dim windows high on the walls. The shadows meant our muscles were accentuated in the full-length mirrors around the room. We were captivated by the mirrors, which highlighted our triceps and lats, and allowed us to admire our traps and quads especially on occasions like this when there were only two of us there. My prick jutted in my cotton shorts as Eric continued. "That's where I reckon it all is: the chest. That's the key. You got definition there, you gotta be a body builder. Get it from the bench press, the best press of all. You can pick it when you see a guy in the showers or at the lake. I mean there's only one way a fella gets a bunch of muscle on his chest. I go up to a guy and say, 'Hi, bud, like your pecs, you must do weights.' They always like to hear it, like that someone noticed. We're like a secret society. That's what coach Compton tells us. A lot of fellas won't admit they go to the gym. Sounds a little queer or something but what's wrong with wanting a good body. Better than being a 60 pound weakling..." And bending to pick up a 40 pound barbell he continued. "I tell ya, boxers have the best physiques of all the sportsmen..." He could talk for long stretches about the male physique. His gym bag burst with body builder magazines, food supplements, bottles of full cream milk, bags of natural nuts and dried fruit along with a skipping rope, rubber bands and "posing straps." I may have caught a glimpse of something else: a worn copy of Physique Pictorial. My shocked gaze caught his attention. In flash he had zipped his bag shut, started talking about a new routine for developing a muscle called Adonis belt. In the same single heretical thought I wanted to believe what I thought I had seen...and wanted to fling the possibility from my mind. Eric and Physique Pictorial. This was too...complicated. He said being a lumberjack would be the best career because swinging an axe developed arms, shoulders and abs in one movement. He asked me to go on camping trips where we could live like "lumber guys" and pitch a tent under the stars. Step out of the tent at daybreak and stride straight into the lake. Nobody else around. I was too shy to accept. What would happen out there, him and me? He promised lots of sun and swimming. There was a heavy, hanging implication we would swim nude, as we did in the Y. But in the forest there would be just the two of us. "Reckon boxers have the best physiques..." As soon as I got home I locked myself in my room and rifled in my Popular Mechanics for my purloined physique magazines, overstimulated by this exposure to Eric. Funny, they weren't there. Nor in the pages of Sports Illustrated. Did I place them elsewhere and forget? Not likely. Had Mom found them? She was too drunk most of the time to mount a search and I would have heard about it instantly in an explosion of anger. It was a mystery. I parked it. The girls? Dad? I did not want to dwell on the possibilities. Sometimes at home after a workout, I would face the high chance of a punishment - that is, if Dad were away on a trip. It might be a bad reference from a teacher, ignominious failure in a end-of-week test, even a bad teacher comment for an essay. Mom would march me into the sister's room to undress in front of them, the females watching avidly and then steer me to the bed, to offer up my bottom. The shame of this was always acute and always the same, lying under their gaze. After the first few paddles the sisters and cousins- on several occasions, visiting friends of my sisters- would be instructed to hold me down and stretch my legs. Always my response would be cowardly: moans, howls, sobs and pleas for mercy. Every time I would slip into the same shameful infantilism. They would wait for it and when the girls heard me sob, "Mommy...Mommy!" they would snort with derision and mimic my desperate, broken voice. Then the march out of the bedroom to be positioned somewhere in the house, often with no account taken of possible visitors- friends of my Mom's, bridge parties, drifting teenage girls who had heard there was a sight to be seen with Tommy Gilles punished nude and being forced to stand nude in the hallway or sunroom "with his back to the wall!" Then one day I was being paddled. Flat on my tummy on my sister's bed. Shoulders pressed down, legs tugged back. I was howling, sobbing. I was begging tearfully for "Mommy" to stop. The girls were laughing. Dad walked in, home early. "What's this?" His masterly baritone asserted itself. Mom froze, paddle in the air. The girls were wide-mouthed, speechless. That one of my sisters' friends was present- she was holding an ankle- made things look even more cruel and nasty. I was liberated and allowed to scramble back to my room, T shirt clutched to my midriff, ass reddened, tears on my cheeks. Later I was to overhear an argument in angry whispers coming from my parents' room. I was shocked, shamed. At what Dad had seen of my crying. Sobbing about "Mommy." I went to bed, lying on my tummy as always after savage attention from the paddle. It must have been 10 PM, an owl hooting outside, the house locked down. My bedroom door suddenly opened. I stiffened. It closed again. I smelt the cologne, warm body odour, hair oil and shoe polish that meant my father. I sensed he stood over me. In my shame I did not look. Then he knelt. I heard the creak of his brogues. He rolled my blanket down. "Hey, fella. Slip those pyjamas off...atta boy, lemme help you roll 'em down..." I lifted my bottom, let him take hold of the pyjama waist band. I felt the night air on my bottom. I heard him unscrewing a jar. "Tommy, what happened just now, leeme tell you as your ole Dad, won't happen again. Ever. When you're bad and need it...and there will be times..." Here I heard him scoop something from the jar. I felt the mattress sink and creak as he leant into it. "...you will be spanked by one person..." I then felt his hand smoothing cold cream on my bottom cheeks. I came close to fainting with joy. And love. "...and Tommy, you know who that person will be?" I took a long deep breath. His hands were smoothing the cold cream into my upper thighs where legs met the curve of my bottom. It was deeply, lasciviously beautiful. "Know who that will be, Tommy?" My insides had melted into warm, sticky toffee. "You... "...Dad." "That's right, young fella. Your Dad. And I'll do it properly, man-to-man. Know what I mean?" "Yep." And I think I did, vaguely. "Think you'll like that?" My reply was instant. "Yes." He must have massaged my upper thighs and bottom for another 20 minutes, slowly, tenderly. As he smoothed my left bun his thick thumb separated from the rest of his hand...and lodged in my crack. His thumb! It found my hole. Slowly pressed at the entrance. While the rest of his hand moved his thumb lodged there- I could feel his nail pressed into my sphincter. The hand moved, massaging; the thumb stayed lodged...in my crack; the nail pressed at the hole. My erection pulsed and throbbed. I had entered a dreamlike state. Without a whimper or shudder, I luxuriously ejaculated into the sheet. A full, flowing emission. I felt the wetness spread. I feared he would smell it. He rose and leaving my bottom exposed, rolled back the sheet and blanket. "You can sleep nude if you like. Fellas sometimes like that." As he parted he said over his shoulder, "Left the cold cream for you...and some new editions, there on your desk. Might see you at the Y tomorrow. With your buddy Eric. Nice fella, him." I lay, unable to lift myself. Then curiosity stirred. I switched on the lamp. Gee! Dad had left a gift. There on the table was the bottle of cold cream and... I rose from the bed. Letters? Photos? Magazines! I picked them up. Stared at the covers. Fellas my age. Gym trained or just slim. A brand new edition of Physique Pictorial. A fresh Young Adonis. A mint-new Grecian Guild. Purchased on his trip from newsstands in some city or other. Young heroes in black and white, in G-strings or, even better, seen from behind, stark naked, ready to step into my imagination. And obey my directions. What can a fella amount to, without his Dad? Only after the darkest valleys can we appreciate the view from the highest peak.