We found Reggie chatting with a group of boys in the back yard. Dusk was settling in, and people milled under the light of lanterns strung between trees. A carnival atmosphere lit the faces of the boys and warmed the smiles of the men. Reg left his group and joined Dad and me as we walked toward the barn, past a long string of fundraising booths.
The loud report of a whip shot from the first booth as we passed. A tall man in cowboy hat and chaps coiled his bullwhip then snapped it through the air, popping another balloon fastened to a wheel spinning on the back wall. His boy, a young buckaroo, shouted "Yeee-haaaa!" and the man coiled his whip again. Beyond them was the kissing booth:three naked models, tanned, muscular, walking proudly on a short runway as if their nakedness were the latest fashion. A well-dressed man handed one of them a dollar bill. The model smiled and bent over to take the kiss of the man's hand on his ass. In the dunking booth, a boy swung his arms, balancing on a narrow beam above a water-tank while an enormous man made him dance with a belt. We passed the Whack-a-Mole, where two boys, twins, each with a small mole on his right ass-cheek, darted back and forth between two walls, thrusting their butts out, then darting again. Six butt-sized holes were cut into each wall, and a man on either side wielded a paddle like a tennis racket, pouncing to take a swipe at a mole before it disappeared into the shadow between the walls. Candy apples, cotton candy, sodas and hot-dogs. Fortune tellers and clowns. In every stall a spanking.
As we approached the barn, its massive doors were swung open and the crowds flowed in. Robes like mine, on boys everywhere, flashed with metallic colours under the glaring lights. We, the Hell's Punishers, wore red. The Grim Strappers wore blue. Robes of orange, grey, black, and tan bobbed in the sea of people. Yellow, green, stripes and tartans.
Men
in black robes wandered among the boys, observing them in a way that
made me think of barracudas in a guppy bowl. These are the spankers,
Dad explained. "The referees wear white. They'll be there to make sure
the rules are followed."
"What rules, Dad?" I said.
"First,
let's get you registered," he replied, leading Reg and me to a long
table at the back of the barn. Reg had collected the signatures of my
sponsors on a long form and now handed it to me, saying, "Here,
brat. Give this to the guy at the table."
The man took my form,
looked it over, and gave me a pair of leather wrist cuffs, a larger
cuff, and an electronic stopwatch. The watch was fastened to a buckled
leather strap. Dad took it from my hands, squatted by me, and fastened
it to my ankle. "How does that feel?" he said. "Too tight?"
"No. I don't think so."
"If it starts to feel uncomfortable, just
tell one of the refs, and they'll adjust it for you." He then fastened
the other cuff to my other ankle and stood up, adding, "Whatever you
do, don't touch it yourself."
"Okay."
He fastened the cuffs on
my wrists. From each cuff, including the watch strap, dangled a metal
ring. "C'mon, son, let's go through the course."
I followed Dad and Reg around the barn, through a maze of chairs, posts, and stocks;past vaulting horses and various benches;wooden frames, and hanging chains. Above each station a board was hung, painted with a letter of the alphabet:AthroughZ, then AAthroughZZ. I noticed other boys, led by men, following the course as we were, stopping to observe the implements displayed at each station:belts, whips, paddles, canes;strips of leather, wood, and rubber. And... yes, it's true... vinyl siding.
"You see the
refs at the tables beside each station, son?"
"Yeah, Dad."
"Well, when you come to a station, you tell him how many strokes
you're going to take from that spanker. He writes it down under your
number on a red sheet. You hand him your robe, and he announces the
number of strokes to the audience and the spanker. Got that so
far?"
"Sure, Dad."
"Then he turns off your stopwatch."
"Huh?"
"I'll explain that in a minute," Dad said, smiling at
me. "Now. Here's the tricky part. When you step over to the spanker,
he'll say, 'bound or free?' If you say bound, he'll tie you down, or
hook you up to something, depending on his style. It's easier to take
if you're bound, so if you choose that you lose strokes. How many
strokes depends on the severity of the instrument. If it's a hand
spanking, you lose fifty strokes, for instance. If it's a whipping,
you only lose one."
"So it's only worthwhile," added Reg, "to get
bound for the hard ones."
"Okay."
Dad continued, "You have to
take all the licks you bid in order to go on to the next station. If
you say 'uncle' before you've taken them all, then you're done for the
night."
We had reached a station where a beefy spanker sat
oiling a heavy, brown strap. He smiled at Dad, saying, "Good to see
you again, Frank. Is that your younger boy?"
"Sure is, Sam,"
replied Dad, putting his arm around my shoulders and squeezing me
against him.
"Looks just like his pa." He stared at me and brought
the strap down with a loud explosion onto a padded stool before
him. "I hope he can take a strapping like you can, Frank."
Dad
gave me another squeeze, saying, "He'll take what I tell him to
take. No more and no less."
The man grinned at me as we walked on
to the next station. Dad whispered, "He's just trying to intimidate
you, son. That strap of his is nothing compared to Reggie's punishment
strap. You can handle ten from him without any trouble at all."
We stopped at the next station, and Dad placed his hands on my
shoulders. "Reg has a lot of experience now." His eyes were inches
from mine, pulling me closer as though they were great, blue
whirlpools. "I don't want you trying to keep up with him. I'll be
there at each station, and I'll tell you how much you are to bid. Is
that clear?"
"Yes, sir." I knew exactly what 'is that clear?'
meant.
"Now," he continued. "About the stopwatch. When you've
taken all the licks you're going to take at a station, the ref will
set your timer. You have ten minutes to get to the next station
before it starts to beep. If you haven't made your bid by the time it
beeps, you're disqualified."
Reg said, "There's not much point in
resting too long between stations, anyway. You won't make any money
that way."
I smiled at Reg, saying, "Okay." Possibly, he was being
nice because Dad was there. But his motives didn't matter. I was
grateful, anyway.
"Why are so many men dressed in suits,
Dad?" A good portion of the crowd looked like business men checking
out displays on the floor of a convention center. Dad was dress
casually, in slacks and shirt.
"Those are sponsors," he
replied. "If they like what they see, they'll go to the registration
desk and add their names to your sponsorship list."
I could see a
few of the sponsors eyeing Reg and I, as we wandered past the
stations. "What do they get out of it, Dad?"
"There are prizes for
the top ten sponsors, the ones who bid the most. It's usually a nice
paddle or strap, or something like that. They'll annouce it before the
competition starts. They spend a lot more money than the prize is
worth, really, but there's some prestige involved."
"I see."
We finished our tour of the spanking course and wandered outside into the cool evening air. Dad bought us both sodas at a refreshment stand, and we strolled about, stopping to chat with men and boys Dad knew. After a while, a bell clanged from inside the barn, and we strode inside. The air was warm with the heat of hundreds of bodies. I watched a trickle of sweat run down Dad's cheek as he listened to the master of ceremonies welcome everyone to the games. Butch then stepped up to the platform and took the microphone. "On behalf of Hell's Punishers, I'd like to welcome you all here tonight." Applause broke out, fading as he continued, "It's also my pleasure, as the host of this month's Biker's Spank-a-Thon, to announce this evening's prizes for the top ten sponsors." The crowd hushed as he went on, pointing to a row of five frat paddles hanging on the wall behind him, ranging in size from large to enormous. "The sixth through tenth highest bidder will receive one of these great paddles, fashioned by the good people atSpanking Express. Our thanks go to Jimmy and the staff atSpanking Expressfor their generous donation." The barn thundered with applause. Then Butch said, "Now. For the top five prizes, the board of directors ofThe Society Of Bikers Spanking(affectionately known as S. O.B. S) has come up with something very special for tonight. As you know, we have a guest house here atPunishers' Acres. Some of you have been known to stay overnight after a good event to carry on the...um...festivities." Laughter and cat-calls erupted from several groups of men. Butch grinned and held up his hands to silence the crowd. "The board of directors has generously offered free overnight accomodation for the top five sponsors." Applause. "Plus!" he continued. "The lucky five will get a boy of their chosing from among the contestants for a private discipline session tomorrow afternoon."
Dad stiffened beside me as the crowd went wild. I looked up and saw intense anger on his face. He was staring at Butch as if he wanted to skin him alive. I glanced at Reg. He was looking at the floor, shrinking as though he were afraid Dad might notice him and say something he didn't want to hear. "Both of you stay here until I get back," Dad growled, striding off toward the platform. "And now," Butch was saying, "I'll turn the microphone over to your emcee and we'll get things rolling." He moved to the back of the stage, and Dad pushed his way through the crowd toward him. Reg grabbed my arm, hauling me toward stationA, saying, "C'mon! We have to get in line before Dad gets back."
When we reached the station, two boys were already in line. More filed behind us as the emcee announced, "Let the games begin!" A loud bell rang from the platform, and the first boy handed his cloak to the referee. "Ten!" announced the ref as the boy fell over the lap of the first hand-spanker. I peeped around Reg to watch as the first swats rang out and saw Dad on the platform, arguing with Butch. We moved ahead in line as the ref set the first boy's watch and handed him his cloak. The next boy aproached the table. The ref hollered "Fifty," and I heard Reg curse under his breath. Dad looked a little calmer now as Butch spoke to him, but I could see the angry frown still sitting on his brow. The crowd was thick around the first station as the sponsors pressed in for a view of the opening spankings. I lost sight of Dad. As the last swats stung the boy's ass, the ref motioned the people back. I caught a glimpse of Dad standing where he had left us. He looked in our direction, scowled, and headed toward us. Reg was at the table, handing over his cloak. When asked how many swats he would take, he hesitated, glanced at me, then said, "One." The crowd murmured as he threw himself over the spanker's lap hollering "Ready" before he had even landed. The spanker looked at him as though startled by his abruptness, shrugged, and brought his hand down with a resounding *crack*. Reg scrambled to his feet, grabbed his cloak and lifted his foot to the ref. As soon as his timer was set, he looked at me and said, "Now!"
Spurred by his frantic pace, I thrust my cloak at the ref and said, "Two." I could see the crowd shifting like a school of fish splitting to let a shark through. Dad was coming. The ref seemed to take forever to write 2 on red sheet 57. Finally, he said, "assume the position," and I threw myself over the spanker's lap, saying "free" before he even asked whether or not I wanted to be bound. He rubbed my bum a bit, then brought his hand down hard on my left cheek. I looked up to see Dad burst through the crowd. The hand came down on my right cheek, and I winced. Dad looked angrier than ever before.
He stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, staring at me while the ref set my timer. As I donned my cloak, a path leading to the next station opened in the crowd around Dad. He stayed where he was, in the middle of the path. "Fifty" was announced behind me, and I slinked toward Dad. I edged past him into the path, too scared to look up at him. Staring at the floor, I continued on. I felt his eyes upon me, following me as the crowd parted to let me by. Up ahead rang the smacks of a wooden paddle.One. Two. Three.I counted the swats, trying not to think of Dad's anger burning me like a fire licking at my backside.Eight. Nine. Ten.
When I reached the
next station, Reg was touching his toes and a young man with
wire-rimmed glasses was drawing back a heavy frat paddle.
Eleven.I heard Reg stifle a cry, his knees buckling then
straightening, his body swaying back and forth as though he were
losing his balance. The young man swung the paddle.Twelve.
Reg groaned then slowly rose, dragging his hands up his legs. I could
see his fingers clenching into fists, pressing hard on his thighs.
When he turned to let the ref set his timer, he looked over my head at
Dad. His face turned redder than his butt. I felt Dad's hand grasp the
back of my neck and saw his other hand from the corner of my eye,
crooking a finger to beckon Reg. After slipping into his cloak, Reg
walked over to us. Dad put his arms around our necks, forcing us into
a huddle, and said, "You're both in a great deal of trouble."
We
stared at the floor. "Reginald," he continued. "You knew how unhappy I
was with that announcement."
"Yes, sir."
"And yet you thought
you could get the jump on me before I called it off. Is that it?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Mike, you should have known better. I told you to
wait, and yet you chose to disobey me and follow your brother."
I
nodded, mute with terror.
"Well. Had you waited and done what you
were told to do, you would have found out that I'd made
arrangements. I made a deal that if either of you are chosen by the
winning sponsors, the punishment session will be done in my
presence. If that isn't satisfactory to the sponsors, they can choose
another boy."
Reg looked up at Dad, his face a diagram of surprise
and chagrine. If we had waited, Dad would have let us compete after
all. Now, though...
"Apparently you boys think you are old enough
now to make your own decisions without my guidance," Dad said. "So
I'll give you a choice. You can quit now and take your licking from
me when we get home. Or...you can finish the competition and take the
same licking from me three days from now, when you're still sore from
tonight. Then again, every Saturday for the rest of the month. You
have about two minutes left on your timers to make up your minds."
Dad released our necks and moved off to the edge of the crowd
to watch us. I knew what Reg was thinking. A spanking from Dad three
days from now would be unbearable. The humiliation of giving in now
and, possibly, giving up his dream of full membership to the gang,
would also be unbearable. I thought of the last strapping Dad had
given me. The next one would be even worse. Then three more. Or were
there four more Saturdays this month? I couldn't think. Then an image
flashed into my mind:my own Harley, with my own
nameplate stuck to the gas tank. We looked at each other, and Reg
said, "You game?"
"I guess so," I responded.
"Okay," he
said. "Good luck."
He headed toward stationC. I glanced
at Dad and turned toward the referee.