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.