"I dare you," Boyd taunted from behind an adjacent pine tree as he looked out over the lake at the man fishing in a john boat. He turned to me, "Go ahead and do it. You lost the bet, you've gotta."
Boyd and I stood now at the edge of that meadow just inside the forest looking out at the man in the boat.
"You can't back out now, Mark," Boyd stressed, looking at me. "The bet was that if you lost, you had to streak across the meadow in front of whoever was on the lake. Lucky for you, it's only one boat, but you hafta do it. It was a fair bet."
"A fair bet, yeah. But a stupid bet," I contested. "Who cares? I mean let's leave the guy alone."
"What is this? Come on!" Boyd said turning to me. "Are you chickening out or somethin'? I mean what's the big deal.
So you get undressed and you prance out there in front of that man. What's the great harm? What, you think he's gonna have a stroke or somethin'?"
"No...", I whispered somewhat irritated. Who knew that Mexico was officially one of the Allied powers during WWII except for Boyd. He was a war nut and I should have known better than to challenge him on that. The whole idea of the bet being about streaking in front of someone on the lake had popped into his head because of a newspaper story about streaking two days before. I was stupid to agree to the bet.
"Okay," I said, acquiescing. "I'll do it." I looked around behind us, making sure we were alone. "I say I get undressed here, step out into the meadow a couple of feet and then the bet is honored."
"Yeah," he said sarcastically, nodding, "you undress here. But you have to walk ALL the way across the meadow and back, that's what streaking is, it's not standing nude in front of someone, that's flashing, Mark. Read the news article."
I took one more glance at the man in boat. It was obvious he didn't know we were there. He laid his fishing rod down in the boat and took up a wooden oar and slowly paddled, moving parallel to shore.
"Well, here goes and I'm not bettin' with you anymore, Boyd. This is it for me." I pulled my tee shirt over my head and walked it down my arms, all the while watching the man in the boat. "Hurry up," Boyd ordered, lowering his voice.
Undressing in front of Boyd didn't concern me. We'd seen each other nude since we were little and over the years had noticed how our bodies had changed. However, being forced to undress made me kind of uneasy and a tightness started in my stomach.
"He's right in front of the meadow now." Boyd whispered. "All you gotta do is walk across and back," He chuckled softly. "I can't wait to see that guy's reaction. This is cool." His eyes went to my shorts, "Come on. Get 'em off."
His smirk turned into a full blown grin and he chuckled softly. He whispered, "Tiiimmmmeeee...", dragging the word out softly as if it were more than one syllable.
I was not amused.
He motioned towards the meadow with his head.
I turned towards the meadow and glanced at the boat. It was still about twenty feet from shore, the man paddling softly parallel to shore. My breathing deepened and I had to breathe through my mouth--I wasn't getting enough air through my nose. I was trying to regulate it, trying to force myself to relax somewhat, but couldn't. I timidly stepped out into the meadow, shaking slightly. The man still hadn't noticed me.
"Go on," Boyd ordered.
Don't look, I told myself. Just walk across, then walk back and it's done, this nonsense is over. I looked down at my feet watching were I placed every foot and started walking across the meadow about ten feet from shore. I kept trying to regulate my breathing but couldn't. With every step I took I felt as if eyes were touching me, both Boyd's and the stranger's. In the heat of the summer afternoon, I felt cool.
I was more than halfway across the meadow, when a deep, stern voice echoed across the lake and the forest, "YOOUUU!!!" I froze temporarily, then immediately decided not to acknowledge the yell. My breathing quickened; I could hear each rapid breath.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, I kept telling myself--my personal mantra to get me through this. Then the mantra changed--this was stupid, this was stupid, this was stupid. As I reached the other side of the meadow I turned around quickly, still breathing deeply, and glanced out over the lake towards the boat. A shudder ran up my spine and a yell almost escaped my lips as I noticed that the boat was no more than about five feet from shore, midway in the meadow about twenty feet from me.
"No, no, no", I whispered to myself aloud, shaking my head. I looked across the meadow to where Boyd stood jumping behind the pine trees, his arms flailing in the air. When we made eye contact, he stopped jumping and with both his hands motioned for me to "come on".
Panic flooded my body with this urgent need to run and run like hell. I bolted back across the path I had just come, my eyes totally locked on the man in the boat who had a look of consternation on his face that was sure to make me set track records. My eyes kept telling my mind that the boat was going to be ashore before I could pass it, but my mind kept vetoing the eyes and insisted I would be pass it.
It was almost a tie, the boat reaching the shore about two seconds before I passed the same spot. As I ran across the front of the boat the man sprang out the left side stepping into the water and took four massive strides towards me, his right arm extending and his hand locking on my left bicep. He immediately stopped and jerked me back with such force that a squeal, not a yell, escaped my lips as I spun around towards him.
"What the hell are you doin'?" he bellowed in an unmistakable drill sergeants tone. "Where the hell do you live?"
I could hardly breathe, "....please,.....let me go,.. please". I begged, tugging against his hold on my arm.
"Where do you live, boy? I think your dad would like to hear about this, don't you?" He shook me roughly.
I couldn't speak, or breathe, the sound I made was like a babble, emitted between deep, rough breaths. A feeling came over me probably like the feeling that comes over animals when taken down by a predator--I couldn't move, only squirm slightly, and my mind seemed to be tuning this out--it couldn't be happening, it wasn't real. It was as if some strange peace was overcoming me--I probably was going in shock.
"I said, where do you live!", his voice sterner, his dark sunshades glaring into my eyes making me feel even more naked, totally exposed. A voice change, "Okay then." He backed his face away from mine. "I'll take care of this myself."
About ten feet away, there was a dead fallen pine tree that had fallen from the forest into the meadow, the bark and branches had long since decayed. Lightning had hit the tree and caused it to break about seven feet from the ground and the upper part just bent down into the meadow from that break point. The height from the ground depended on where along the length of the tree you were. I realized with horror that the man was dragging me towards the tree.
Whatever shock I was in started to wan and I found my voice. "Let me go, mister! Let me go!" I struggled with him, trying to unpry his hand on my left bicep with my free right hand. He released me briefly, grabbed my right arm at the wrist, spun me around facing away from him and crooked my arm up my back in a very effective arm lock. He then used his left hand to grasp my left arm by the bicep.
I stood facing my pile of clothes. Boyd was gone. Where is he? I thought. Did he go for help? How the hell were we going to explain this to others if they came? Oh God. My stomach knotted further. Then I spotted him, hiding behind a different set of pine trees which had several shrub oaks in front of them. He had a look of terror on his face that didn't quite match mine--but close.
I was jerked sharply and led to the fallen pine tree still in the arm lock. "I'll teach you a lesson, young man," the man threatened, more hate than anger in his voice. "Your dad might not have taught you right but I will."
"It's just a joke, it's..it's just streaking." I stammered, "I..I lost a bet. Please, mister, please, let me go. Don't hurt me, please don't hurt me. Pleeeassseee." I was standing against the fallen pine tree waist high, facing it.
"Do you know it's against the law what you're doing? I could call the police, have you thrown in jail." He was a strong man, obviously career military, his voice very authoritarian. "When I bust your ass are you going to do this again, boy?"
I heard the man snicker behind my back and laugh, his laughter echoing off the forest surrounding the meadow. "Boy," he chuckled, "you aren't too bright are you. How the hell you going to call the cops on me when you don't know who the hell I am. Isn't that why you chose me to show your goods to." He removed his left hand from my left bicep and used it to replace his right hand on the arm lock, thus freeing up his right hand.
"Please mister, don't.....don't.......Pleeaaase," the panic showed in my voice--it was wavering, breaking on high notes. I yelled out, "Boyd, help me! HELP ME!"
"I'M SORRY...I'm sorry, mister. Please don't do this. Please, pleeasse. I'm so sorry." I was trying to wriggle free but it was helpless. "I'll never do it again. I swear. I SWEAR! Please believe me, please, please, believe me." My voice was cracking and I was on the verge of bawling, something I did not want to do, especially in front of Boyd.
The pleadings meant nothing to the man. He forcefully shoved me over the pine tree with his left arm, using the arm hold to pin me in place. The upper part of my body was sharply bent over the tree, with my feet just barely off the ground. I could see under the tree and saw his feet and saw as he stepped from behind me to my left. I knew what was coming and every muscle in my body tightened. "Hold on boy," the man stated flatly, " we're just getting started." With that he let into a barrage of about twenty lashes, with only the last few not at the caliber of the first lash. I screamed and squirmed and tightened and begged with each one.
Then it was over. He released my arm and stepped back. I lay there across the tree, my right arm still folded, lying limp, over my back. I was trembling, my whole body shook. I was crying silently, my voice weak from screaming during the belting. I just lay there. "Well, I bet you don't do that again. Or at least not to me." With those words the man walked away from me and got in his boat, me listening to every sound he made. I heard his feet on the aluminum of the john boat as he stepped in. I heard the sound of the water as he pushed off. I heard him pick up the paddle from the boat and heard the sound of the paddle cutting into water.
I spotted Boyd standing at my pile of clothes. He bent down, scooped them up, then glanced over the lake to monitor the progress of the boat. He looked my way and I could tell he was trying to read my eyes. I looked down, embarrassed. He walked closer.
"Mark...are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft. He stopped about ten feet away.
"What do you think?" I responded in a weak voice, defeated. "I hurt, Mark....I hurt." I refused to look up. "May I please have my clothes."
I dressed slowly. Every piece of clothing seemed to cause pain to my affect buttocks--if not from contact, then from the movement necessary to put the article on. When I was finished, I looked up at Boyd who stood near me, sullen. His eyes were moist, his face downtrodden. Not the taunting brainiac I expected. "Don't worry about it, Boyd," I said softly. "I don't think you could have done anything. We're not jocks, remember. We might have both gotten hurt really bad if you had tried anything." The expression on his face lightened somewhat. "But, no more bets," I continued. I winked at him, placing my hand on his shoulder. "And I think we need to talk about the fact that this went way beyond paying back a bet. I think the balance due is now on your side. Let's talk about it on the way home."
"I'll make it up to you, Mark," Boyd told me as we walked from the woods to his house. "I've got that dime bag of weed hidden in the garage. I'll tell you what, I'll give that to you." He turned to face me. "Will that make us even then?"
I looked over at him and met his gaze. His cinnamon eyes had a pleading, guilty look. I felt like saying no just to continue to make him feel guilty, but the offer of a dime bag of weed--Jamaican at that--was just too tempting. "The whole bag? You sure?"
His eyes brightened somewhat, his frown lessening, at this chance of redemption. "Yeah, I swear." He raised his right hand in a mock gesture. "It's yours. I tell ya Mark, I never meant for you to get hurt by that man. I would have canceled the bet if I thought it would cause you to get hurt."
I continued looking at him, reading his eyes. "I know that Boyd. Besides, the weed will definitely make me forget about it," I joked, winking at him. He smiled broadly and a gleam filled his eyes and I knew that the brainiac was back to normal.
"Come on, let's go get it," Boyd stated, starting to run.
We raced all the way to his home, collapsing on his front lawn. His mom's car was not in the driveway. "Where's your mom?" I asked gasping.
"Shopping. She said this morning that she and dad were going to the mall. Don't worry. The coast is clear. Come on, let's go in."
The house was a rambler with an attached one-car garage that you entered from the kitchen. It was the same as most of the other houses in the subdivision--three bedrooms, two baths, one car garage, slight differences made it somewhat distinct from the others. Boyd took his key and unlocked the front door and we entered.
"You want a Coke or anything?" he asked.
"Nah, thanks. Let's just get the stuff then head back to the woods and LIGHT up?" I winked at him, grinning.
"Oh, that was terrible. Give up on the puns...Please."
"Hey!"
We went through the living room to the kitchen to the door to the garage. Boyd flipped on the light switch and we saw the light come on in the garage through the beige curtains on the door.
"I hid it on the second shelf of Dad's workbench," Boyd said stepping into the garage, me following right behind. "With all the tools he has on that thing, I knew there was no way he would ever find it." Boyd knelt down and reached into the back of the lower workbench shelf. "Ah, here it is." He rose holding a plastic bag in his hand.
"What are you boys doing?" a voice came from the kitchen- garage door which we had left open.
We both spun around and faced the voice. It was Boyd's father standing in a white tee shirt and green army fatigue pants. He was 36 and toned, daily PT kept him in shape. Boyd was born when he was 20, back when he was an E-4; he was a master sergeant now.
"Dad...what are you doing here?" Boyd asked. "I..I thought you went shopping with mom."
"I felt like taking a nap instead, that was, until you boys woke me up when you came in." He eyes dropped to Boyd's hand. "What's that?"
Boyd unconsciously moved the hand behind him, giving himself away. "Nothing, Dad. Just some junk."
Mr. Sinclair stepped down into the garage. "Let me see that."
I could hear the blood running across my temples in the total silence that filled that garage.
"I said," Mr. Sinclair's voice was firm. "Let me see that."
Slowly, Boyd's shaking hand came from behind him. He extended the hand out in front of him towards his father and opened it, palm up. His father looked down at the small bag. He didn't move, just stood looking down at the contents in his son's hand. Slowly, his head turned up from his son's hand to his son's face.
"Dad, I'm..."
"HUSH!"
We stood there in total silence, both Boyd and I watching his father's face. It seemed as if I could actually see the anger build within him. His eyes never left his son's eyes; it was as if he were reading Boyd's soul itself, trying to determine if it was claimed by Satan or still salvageable.
I felt not only terrified but uncomfortable. "Um...I've...I gotta go..."
Mr. Sinclair moved his head to face me. "You are not going anywhere, Mark." He turned back to Boyd, who was now looking down at his feet. "And as for you young man, you know that this is totally unacceptable behavior. What on earth possessed you to be messing with this? What, is Mark getting you into this stuff?"
"No," Boyd said without looking up. He no longer held his hand out with the bag. Both arms hung limply at this sides.
There was a moment of silence. "This time you've done it, Boyd. I can't let this go unpunished. I can't write this off as boyish behavior. Maybe I've done that too much." He turned to me. "Mark, you're going to stand against that wall behind you and watch while Boyd receives his punishment. You're going to see what happens to Boyd when he messes with drugs and you're going to remember it every time you even think about doing drugs with him or in front of him. You hear that?"
I stood looking up at him, nodding, my mouth agape.
"I said, do you hear me?!"
"Yes sir," I replied, still nodding my head.
"Okay, over there then." He motioned with his head.
I backed away towards the wall that he motioned to, stopping only when I physically backed into the wall. I was relieved to be out of the close triangle that we had been in, but I was still tense.
He turned back towards Boyd. "Boyd, I want you to undress. Completely. Right here. You hear me?"
Boyd nodded, still looking down at his feet.
"I said, do you hear me?!"
"Yes sir," Boyd replied weakly, still looking down.
"Look at me young man when I'm talking to you! And I mean NOW!"
Boyd slowly raised his head and looked up into his father's face.
"What did I tell you to do?"
"Dad, please, I'm..."
"WHAT did I tell you to do!"
Boyd sighed in resignation. "Sir, you told me to undress completely." "That's right! Now do it!"
Boyd extended his hand towards his father again. "Do you want this?" he asked sheepishly.
His father looked down at the bag, then took it. "Yes. I'll go flush it down the john and grab a belt while I'm at it." He looked back into Boyd's eyes. "You BETTER completely undress while I'm gone. And you BETTER not move from this spot." He glanced over at me. "Don't even think about leaving."
When his father entered the house, Boyd and I looked at each other. Boyd looked pitiful. I didn't know what to say to him. His brown eyes seemed to plead for me to help him in some way. I thought for a second about running for the door and making it out of the house. I thought perhaps if I wasn't there it would at least remove some of the humiliation for him, but I couldn't move.
He looked over at me and spoke. "My father has never spanked me without clothes before."
"He's really pissed. I wish we hadn't come here." I said.
"Believe me, so do I." He hesitantly lowered his jockey shorts, using his hands to pull them all the way pass his knees before letting them fall to his feet. He straightened and kicked them aside. Swimming at the lake all summer had paid off. He had a swimmer's physique, his upper body nicely defined, tapering down to a narrow waist which funneled attention down to his pubic hair and penis.
His father stepped into the garage carrying a belt. I recognized it as soon as I saw it--a field belt. These were the belts that our father's wore when they were in the field. The "field" is what they called it when they had to camp out in the forests and do maneuvers. The belt was army green, about two and a half inches wide, made of thick twine sewn together, and had regularly spaced, black metal rivet holes which were used to attach things to the belt like canteens and the such.
When Boyd saw the belt, he stepped back towards the work bench. "Dad, please. You've never hit me with anything other than a normal belt before. Please, don't do this. I'm sorry. Don't let me use the car, take away my allowance, but please don't do this. I'm really sorry."
"I know you are. You're sorry you got caught. But I seriously doubt you're really sorry you've been smoking marijuana. You've probably been doing it for awhile." He cut a glance at me as if he thought he could tell from my face whether his guess was correct. I just stood against the wall cowering.
"Please don't do this, Dad. Please. I'm a not a kid. You can't do this to me."
"Shut up, young man. I haven't had to spank you in many years. But I'll be _d_a_m_n_ed if you don't remember this one. That's why I brought this belt. I don't care how big you are, young man, you'll feel this one. Now turn around and brace against that workbench." "Mr. Sinclair, you can't hit him with that..." I interjected.
"You stand over there and shut up or else I'll give YOU some of this."
He turned back to Boyd. "You heard what I said, young man. Turn around, bend over and grab the top of that workbench. I want your legs spread. Believe me, when I finish with the 20 licks you're gonna receive, you'll think twice before you ever, and I mean ever, mess with illegal drugs again in your life. Do you hear me?"
Boyd stood there nodding, although his expression was one of total disbelief.
"I said, do you HEAR me?!"
There was a slight pause. "Yes sir," Boyd managed, his voice strained. "I'm sorry, sir."
He turned and faced the workbench. The workbench was waist high and was cluttered with several bird houses in different stages of development which was Mr. Sinclair's hobby. Boyd bent over and placed his hands on the edge of the workbench, spreading them so that he could stare between them down at the concrete floor. He then positioned his feet, first shifting one then the other as he spread them. He stopped moving and tightened his buttocks preparing for the belting.
I stood to the side leaning against the wall. With Boyd braced in the position as he was, I understood why he was popular with the girls. His tightened shoulder and arm muscles were clearly defined, and his tensed back vee-ed down to his firm meaty buttocks and thighs, which seemed sculptured. With his legs spread as they were, his scrotum and the head of his penis could clearly be seen from behind as well as the body hair that accented them.
I interpreted it as a monologue, but I was conditioned now, "Yes sir."
He took one end of the belt and wrapped it around his right hand several times, holding it within his fist. He held the other end in his left hand.
"Son, I better never find you messing with drugs again." With that he swung the belt back then forward and struck Boyd right in the middle of his buttocks. A bright red lash etched across Boyd's posterior.
"Ahhhh", Boyd screamed thrusting his pelvis forward towards the work bench as far as possible without moving his feet out of position.
"Boyd, resume position," Mr. Sinclair ordered. He turned to me. "Mark, how many was that?"
"One sir."
"He has nineteen more to go. You count out each one and ensure that I stop at twenty."
He turned back to Boyd, who had stuck his posterior back out but not as far as at first. Again, Mr. Sinclair drew back on the belt then lashed forward and struck Boyd's posterior. A second red streak etched across Boyd's posterior, this one more at the base of his buttocks.
"Ahhh! Ahhhh!" This time he came completely out of position, leaning his full chest against the workbench while using his right hand to reach back and rub his buttocks. "Stop Dad! Stop! I..I can't.....Please!"
"Boyd, resume position!"
"Dad, please...."
"Resume POSITION!" Then to me. "Count!"
"Ah, two....two, sir."
Boyd had turned and was looking into his father's eyes. "Please, Dad, no more. I've learned my lesson. I won't do it ever again. I swear."
"Resume position! If I have to hold you down, you will get more than twenty. But twenty will be the minimum here today, have no doubt about that. Now, resume position, and I mean now!"
A look of total defeat overcame Boyd's face and he dropped his glance back to the garage floor as he turned around towards the workbench again. As he placed his hands back on the workbench, I noticed his arms were shaking slightly. That stopped once he tensed his body again.
Another lash.
"Three," I counted this time without prompting.
A lash.
"Four."
Boyd hissed in air when struck, but refused to verbalize any sound. He drew his pelvis in towards the workbench every time he was struck and then took about five seconds to reposition and tense. This cycle continued for each subsequent lash. Around the fifteenth lash, Boyd was taking longer to reposition, about ten seconds. Not only would he draw his pelvis inward but he would twist it somewhat as if that relieved some of the pain to his buttocks. Finally the last lash.
"Twenty!" I yelled.
Mr. Sinclair stood back from Boyd who was still braced against the workbench, his bright red posterior jutting outwards. "I mean what I say Boyd. I better never find you messing with drugs anymore." He glanced over at me, then walked into the house closing the door behind him.
I walked over to Boyd and touched his shoulder. He looked over at me and I could see that he was crying silently. He straightened up and took both hands and massaged his buttocks.
"I can feel that the welts have small bumps in them caused by the small rivet holes in the belt," he said. "Here, feel." He took my right hand and placed it on his posterior and moved it slowly across a welt.
"Yeah, I feel them. Are you okay?"
"Things could be better, but I'll live."
I started gently massaging his right buttock.
"Ah, that feels great," he stated as his body relaxed.