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!"