At about a quarter til seven on Saturday night, lines were already forming at the still unopened spanking booth.
Set up in the gym, it consisted of a booth proper, which included a counter over which flew a banner reading "Spanking Booth! Whack a Coach! $1.00!", and behind that a small platform, where the actual paddlings were to be administered.
Coach Conrad arrived, Butt-Buster in hand, and found Will sitting behind the counter talking to Bradley. He had obligingly worn his coach attire: cap, short-sleeved sweat shirt, gym shorts, and tennis shoes. Bradley too wore a cap, sweat shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tennis shoes - and jeans.
Conrad walked up to him. "How come you're not wearing shorts?" He was perhaps already envying the protection offered by Bradley's denim in contrast to the flimsy material of his own shorts.
Bradley smiled at him. "Because I'm a sissy, remember?"
Andy, the president of the sponsoring group, stepped up to Conrad. "If you'll just put your paddle over there, Coach. We're about ready to start." Conrad placed his paddle on one of two stools standing on the platform. Bradley's Stinger lay on the other.
Will was telling Bradley, "Yeah, Coach, practically the whole team's here, like they said. And every guy wants to give you and Coach Conrad a swat!"
"Oh, boy," Bradley unenthusiastically responded. He was looking at the lines and wondering what he had gotten himself into. Those lines consisted mostly of members of the school's athletic teams, but there were also several other students who wanted to take part in the unusual festivities.
Andy moved to the front of the booth. "Okay, everybody. You know why we're here - to raise money for the school. And to help us, we have two great guys who are offering their - uh, services. Coach Bradley." Bradley bowed to the claps and shouts of approval. "And his Stinger." There was scattered applause. "Coach Conrad." The applause here was more respectful than cheerful "And his Butt-Buster!" Only a few claps, and a number of "boo's" greeted this.
Andy went on. "The rules are simple, guys. One lick, one dollar. No limit of one to a customer. You pay the man, you choose your weapon, you take a swing!"
"Yay!" came from the crowd.
"Okay, guys, " Bradley shouted, "Do your best. Or your worst. Just remember this is your good old coach you're smacking."
Not to be outdone, Conrad boasted, "We can take anything you guys can dish out."
Andy yelled, "Let's go!", the two coaches stepped onto the platform, and the spanking booth was open for business.
Bradley's and Conrad's students had seen to it that they were first in line. They were eager to indulge in this mild but satisfactory form of revenge, even those who had never been paddled.
The procedure was simple. Each participant picked up the appropriate paddle, and uttered the classic command, "Okay, Coach, bend over and grab your ankles!" The coach would comply, Conrad stoically, Bradley good naturedly. Bradley presented the taut seat of his jeans to the eager paddler as a working target. ( He noticed that Conrad had worn tight shorts that clung to his butt, and when he bent over you could even see the lower part of his cheeks.) After receiving their licks, the coaches would be given a short rest before the next paddler took his place and ordered them to bend over. Every now and then, by turns, they took a fifteen minute break, during which either Will or Andy brought them coke and snacks.
Most of the students shared the frivolous spirit of the evening, making their swats if not too hard, not too soft, either. A delighted crowd gathered around the platform There was applause after each coach took his licks. There was encouragement for the paddlers, but only in fun, although an occasional call of "Let his butt have it!" did arise.
All went smoothly until Nichols showed up. He was in the line waiting for Coach Bradley, and arriving at the booth, put down a five dollar bill, saying, "This is just for starters!" He was the first student who hadn't settled for just one lick. Bradley knew Nichols didn't like him, and the feeling was mutual. Nichols was Conrad's pet, and his mentor was now taking a break and watching Bradley's predicament.
Nichols grabbed the Stinger with both hands. With more than mischief in his eyes, he said, "This is gonna be fun! Grab those ankles, Bradley!"
Bradley gave him a dirty look, but obeyed. Then he heard Conrad's voice. "You have to hit really hard if you want to make an impression with that thing, Nichols. Besides, Bradley's wearing jeans."
Bradley couldn't take that sneering tone in Conrad's voice. He wasn't going to give that bastard another reason to call him sissy. He stood, and speaking to Nichols, but looking straight at Conrad, said, "You want to use the Butt-Buster, Nichols? You go right ahead!"
Nichols seized the bigger paddle with relish. As Bradley bent down again, he looked up at Nichols' face. This punk wants to cause pain, he thought, and determined not to give him the satisfaction.
Crack!
_d_a_m_n_ that kid! Bradley clenched his teeth but didn't cry out. He looked back. Nichols was tightening his face and pulling the paddle all the way back.
Crack!
That one did a lot more than tingle, but Bradley made himself say, "Is that the best you can do, Nichols?"
The punk was getting mad. Conrad advised him, "Snap your wrist just before you make contact. That really makes it hurt."
Crack!
The kid's getting better, Bradley thought, but still...
Crack! Crack!
Bradley rose. "Nice try, Nichols," he said, although he had to say it through gritted teeth. He gave Conrad a triumphant look.
Nichols fished in his wallet. "_d_a_m_n_, that's all I have. Dad cut off my allowance last week."
That's what you get for spending it all on beer and cigarettes, Bradley thought.
"But I'll get some money out of him." He pointed a finger at Bradley and said, "I'll be back!" then ran from the platform.