Settling deeply into a well worn chair which, charitably, might have been described as early depression in style, Bill Kellogg surveyed the living room and audibly sighed. "Well, Thomas, it's all yours now," he said. "Will it be hard for you to sell it?"
"No," Thomas answered, looking, like his partner, only at all the work there was to be done just to clean it up before putting it on the market. "I had lots of good times here, though, and it's the only house I ever lived in until I left for college." He walked slowly over to the front windows. "Lots of good memories for me, and very few bad ones." He saw himself out in the yard playing catch with his father, his official Hank Aaron Rose signature Louisville Slugger lying in the grass.
"This is where it all started, back when you were a strong willed young hellion, isn't it?" Bill asked. "Is that a good memory or a bad one--your adolescent _s_e_x_ual awakening--and 'special interest', let's say."
"I don't know." Tom turned to face Bill and looked uncertain as to the meaning of Bill's comment. "Sumus quod sumus," as Garrison Keillor would say. "We are what we are."
Cliche, Bill thought, but true nonetheless. His thoughts took him back ten years to one of those tense advice sessions when he first came out to his mother and explained he was gay and that was that. Bill had been twenty-four at the time and hardly needed advice from his mother on affairs _s_e_x_ual or anything else--or so he thought at the time. But now he remembered one little pearl his mother had passed along: nothing corrodes intimate relationships faster than two of our most common emotions, anger and guilt.
The guilty person tends to pull away in shame and the angry one pushes away the irritant. Sometimes the guilt itself provokes a mask of anger. Solve the problems of guilt and anger in a relationship, his mother had said, and you're on your way to forever together. If there was one trait Thomas had in abundance it was guilt. Eighteen years in parochial schools coupled with his mother's neuroses had seen to that. But he was no bargain either, Bill knew, with his temper. He did get angry. Worse, his anger at Thomas sometimes seemed to last far too long.
Bill soon enough found a way to deal with his anger when Thomas did some of the outlandish things of which he was fond and then withdrew into guilt in the aftermath of his misbehavior. A few months after they committed to living together and keeping their relationship exclusive of others, the turning point came at a small party with friends. Thomas, as was his custom back in those years, had more to drink than prudent and proceeded to dive into a swimming pool with his clothes on to join two of Bill's friends who were swimming buck nekkid.
When they got home Thomas was still laughing and Bill still seething. In a quiet rage Bill had explained how Thomas's behavior had embarrassed him and Thomas's flirting with two innocent friends was outrageous. When Thomas laughed at Bill and called him a poor sport, Bill had sat down and yanked Thomas across his lap, pounding his backside in frustration. When Bill's hand began to hurt and Thomas was still giggling in his stupor, Bill had stood him up, ripped his belt off, pulled Tom's pants down, and flailed Tom till he ran for cover.
A badly hung over Thomas came to Bill apologizing in the morning, feeling as guilty as only those raised in fear of spending eternity in hell for human sinfulness can. Bill's terms: an apology to the two men Tom had virtually molested in the pool and a licking he would feel this time. Bill wanted him to experience the humiliation his victims had the night before. Thomas accepted, and Bill had given him a good thrashing with the paddle.
Since that morning ten years ago Bill had often used his solution to the neutralize the acids of anger and guilt. And Tom had actually grown up some, seeing that not all his practical jokes were funny. Bill had established the certainty of Tom's getting the paddle for him once Tom had crossed the boundaries of acceptable behavior. Although Bill seemed to like to surprise Tom with many variations on the same theme, the conclusion was usually the same. Bill kept him on a short, but loving, leash.
Thomas's voice broke into Bill's silent reminiscence. "Biechtig, Junge."
"Biechtig? What's that mean?" asked Bill.
"It's German for 'bend over, young man.' For me it meant 'take your pants down and bend across the bench for a whipping.'"
"And then?"
"And then what do you think?!" Thomas continued. "My father took his sweet time, I remember, lecturing and using the strap for punctuation."
"How many, Thomas," Bill pressed.
"Who knows? I had other things on my mind than counting. When I got it good I can remember seeing light traces on the backs of my legs in the mirror for the next day or two, that's for sure. I had to be careful in the shower room, I remember, so I wouldn't be embarrassed."
"Think the strap is still in the drawer downstairs?"
"Probably. I can't imagine who would have wanted it," Thomas replied. "One way to find out," he said, getting up and heading toward the basement stairs.
Bill followed him down the rickety steps into a basement which had not been cleaned in many years. Slowly he wound his way through the clutter accumulated over decades by his father who had always stashed all those worthless "things you just might wish you had kept." He groped in the dimness with his right hand for the string attached to a bare light at the entrance to his father's workshop. The string broke when he pulled but there was enough string left to turn on the light. Unlike the rest of the basement, the shop was fairly tidy and had been cleaned---within the last year anyway. Must have been his brother on one of his infrequent trips back home. At least he had done something positive. Or was he raiding the place? How could two boys raised in the same house by the same parents turn our so differently, he wondered. Thomas stood inside the door remembering the many hours he had spent there learning the carpenter's craft at his father's side and the warm feeling in his soul brought a smile to his face.
Bill pushed ahead over to a workbench along the far wall and opened the top drawer. He found what he had come for under several layers of sandpaper and assorted rasps: with some reverence he took the well worn strap from the drawer. Under it was a yellowed envelope with "Tom" penciled across it. Bill turned to his partner and raised the strap to show him, a smile spreading across his face. Tom shook his head and rolled his eyes, then smiled slightly.
"Look what I found!" Bill said, raising it and lightly smacking his open palm. "It needs a bit of oil, maybe, and appears not to have been used enough in the past few years, but otherwise it will do nicely, I think."
"Just what will it 'do' so nicely?" Thomas replied, noting the clear implication of his partner's tone and the smirk now replacing the smile on Bill's face. Little doubt about his intention now.
"It will nicely do what it has always done," Bill answered as he looked around in the cabinet hung above the bench, "teach good lessons. How thoughtful of your dear, departed father to leave it for me." After rummaging through a number of dirty containers, Bill took a small can of neats foot oil out and began to rub the oil into the leather with his fingers. He deftly poured a thin line of dark oil down the center, then his fingers gently circled the oil out into the crusty leather.
"Well, it can do just what it has for the past twenty years and lay there and rot." Thomas fastened his eyes on Bills strong hands as he rubbed hard on the old leather, trying to restore its suppleness. Something erotic there: Bill's skin fit blue jeans and a nice, tight, cotton tee shirt were enough to turn Tom on. But he did not like the turn this conversation was taking at all.
"We came here to clean this dump out, sell what we can, give the rest to the Salvation Army, and unload the house--so let's get do it," Tom continued. "I'll go up and get the garbage bags and some boxes and we can start right here and work our way out to the stairs."
"This was in the drawer, too, Thomas," he said, holding up the old envelope. "It's your father's writing, I think, and has your name on it." He laid the strap down on the bench and held out the intriguing, sealed envelope. Bill had actually gotten on better with Thomas's dad than his own father. Thomas's father simply accepted both men for what they were and respected them. Bill remembered Tom's dad fondly as a no-nonsense guy with a good sense of humor. And he did remember a story or two he told on Thomas's misspent teenage years, including a few trips to this workshop for a strapping.
Thomas took the envelope and opened it with a pocket knife. There was a short, hand written letter inside. He moved over to the door to get enough light to read the difficult script and began to read.
"Out loud, Thomas," Bill commanded, an edge to his voice. This could be good, he thought to himself. There was always a little risk is listening to a voice from the dead, especially when it addressed something as personal and intimate as this likely would.
Thomas locked eyes with Bill as he debated whether to do as he had been ordered. He, too, knew there was a little risk here. He had been close to his father and already was feeling the emotions well in his stomach. Well, there was nothing he hadn't shared with Bill before.
He started over and read aloud:
November 10, 1984 Dear Son: If you are reading this it is likely I am no longer with you. Thank you for doing all those difficult tasks an executor must do: I know it will not be easy, but I know you will do this as well as you have everything else. Since my attorney has told me in no uncertain terms there is no place in my last will and testament for maudlin farewells or one last injunction to my son, this is it.
I put this where I knew you would find it since I know you will dispose of all the tools of my livelihood carefully. I also intentionally put it under the only thing which seriously came between us when you were growing up to remind you that there can be no higher life than the moral and ethical one. Now that you have presumably moved on into adulthood I know you will better understand what my hope was when it was necessary to give you a strapping on occasion. I can still remember the first time I took the strap to you, sort of a right of passage from childhood into adolescence. Remember? You and Pug playing house out in the garage? I hope you will take it with you as a souvenir and, maybe, as a reminder of your now departed old man. I had high standards for you, high hopes for you, and was not disappointed. And always, even--especially--when you were over the end of this bench and I was tanning you, I loved you. Dad
Thomas felt a bit of hollowness in his belly and decided to go upstairs for time alone to regain his composure. Before he could make a quick exit, Bill turned to him and waved the two foot length of leather menacingly. "You're not going anywhere, young man! Get over here right now. What's this business about playing house out in the garage, Thomas? And who's Pug?! Not that twit who lived next door, I hope." Thomas had never mentioned a Pug in the stories of his youth so far as he could remember. Maybe there were good reasons.
Thomas had been living with Bill long enough to know not to leave. He had made more than a few trips to retrieve the paddle for, as Rumpole would have it, "he who must be obeyed." When Bill took that tone, the best course was polite cooperation or, if Thomas was willing to take the risk, a little verbal judo with humor. So he walked across the shop and stood there trying to remember the last time his father has licked him with that strap.
"How long has it been, Thomas?" Bill asked, as if reading his thoughts.
"I really can't remember," Tom answered honestly. "Probably about my sophomore or junior year in high school--eighteen or nineteen years ago anyway."
"Far too long, I'd say. But, thanks to me, at least you haven't been neglected. All these years I've paddled your ass and you never once told me about this," he lectured gently.
"This should have come along as a dowry with you when we got moved in together, Thomas. It would have saved the cost of that custom made walnut paddle and been so nostalgic for you."
"I wouldn't use the word nostalgia to describe my memories of that strap and this bench," Thomas countered. In truth, though, he had many times conjured up the memories of those spankings for the erotic feelings they brought. And more than once had done so while over Bill's lap feeling the paddle warming his backside. He noted with a smile the burlap bag still hanging on a peg on the wall near the window and wondered whether the terry cloth towels were still there. He had found them handy after his father had punished him and had left him alone to ponder his sins.
"Good news for you," Bill announced as he again began to knead the oil into the leather to make it supple. "This is golden oldies day--or should I say a 'blast from the past'--and you're the star attraction. We're going to have a little 'motivational session' here before we begin the cleanup. Just think of it as domestic basic training. It's been a little too long since you've assumed the position for me. Maybe a little use will soften up this leather."
Ignoring Bill, Thomas went over to the burlap bag and peered inside: they were still there. Digging down he pulled up an old white (now somewhat yellowed) towel and took it out of the bag. Slowly, he walked over to Bill and held out this ancient evidence of his sinful youth. Even now, the guilt returned and he blushed as he remembered his sneaky trips to the ragbag to jerk himself off, often just after a licking. The eternal cycle of sin bringing punishment bringing yet more sin. Something theological there about human nature, he thought, but he wasn't quite sure just what it was.
Bill remembered Tom telling about that rag bag as he watched him with amusement. Not enough that any particular sin could send him down here for a spanking, he thought, but as soon as the guilt over and that sin was expiated, Thomas had masturbated, bringing a new load of guilt. A psychiatrist's delight. A good shrink could probably pay for a summer home and two yachts working with Thomas.
But Bill had his own solution. Cheaper and much more effective, he thought. He had to admit to himself, he truly enjoyed these little encounters. This opportunity had fallen into his lap with barely an effort, and he was going to make the most of it. This little scenario was writing itself with little help.
"Very good, Thomas. I do like to see cooperation." Bill cleared the end of the workbench, took the towel from Tom, wiped the bench of dirt and dust, then gave it back. For one moment they exchanged silent stares. "I know what it is, Thomas. You came into this towel years ago. And I know what you're thinking."
Bill pointed to the cleared end of the workbench.
"Biechtig, Thomas."
"Please, Bill," he pleaded softly. "How about later?"
"Biechtig, Thomas," he repeated a bit louder--and again pointed to the cleared end of the bench. "Or perhaps you would like to stand over there in the corner and jack off for me first and then take your strapping? Your choice."
Thomas moved to the end of the old wooden bench as he had so many times years ago, unbuckled his belt, let his jeans fall to his ankles, bent forward across the bench, and clenched his teeth in anticipation. He had the distinct feeling that this time he would not find this the least bit exciting. When nothing happened, he reluctantly reached back and pulled his briefs down to bare his buttocks for a whipping. He tugged them down further, around his knees, and saw the results of his anticipation: his _c_o_c_k_ betrayed him.
"How I do wish I could have been a fly on the wall back then," Bill said. Again he slapped the strap across his open palm. "Do you really think your parents had no idea of what you were up to down here? They never once went into that ragbag and found the evidence? You can't really believe that! And all these years I bet you were a bit disappointed with the paddlings I gave you, weren't you?"
"No! Heavens no," Thomas quickly replied. "I mean I was never disappointed and wouldn't be now if you'd like to wait till we get back home," he added.
"Nice try, Thomas, but we're not going to wait. This is coming with us, in fact, and will find a nice place in the top drawer of your workbench--just like dear ol' Dad's. Now I have a choice and that will be nice. Now tell me about Pug!"
"Please, Bill, could we just get this over?" he implored.
"Not until I hear about Pug!"
"For Pete's sake, that was twenty years ago! Nothing more than a you show me yours and I'll show you mine. Boy, was that ever exciting!" he said with sarcasm. "The best part is that he turned out to be as straight as they come and has no interest in males at all! But, naturally, we got caught and even though nothing happened we both got blistered. That's the 'story' of Pug. Now can we pleeeease get on with it?!"
"Don't get surly with me, Thomas. Is that the way you talked to your father when he lectured you?" He was having too good a time now to let him off quickly. "Whining and sassing back? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You might want to remember your manners. All I want to hear from you is the simple, unvarnished truth and 'yes sir','no sir'. Do you understand me? Do I need to wash your mouth out first? There's a nice, fresh bar of Fels Naphtha by the laundry, Thomas."
Thomas said nothing but raised his bared hips ever so slightly as an enticement for Bill to strap him and get it over. Even that brought back memories. He had always been afraid he might get hard while his father was taking him to task and could not have imagined what kind of punishment that would have brought. So he did what he could to get it over as quickly as possible. When his father licked him, Thomas cooperated fully and kept his ass nice and high till it was over.
"Answer me, Thomas!"
"Yes, sir, I do understand."
"That's better. Did you and Pug play with your _c_o_c_k_s out in the garage? Did you jerk off together?"
"Yes, sir," Thomas replied. "Worse. We jerked each other off and got caught just as we finished one day. He shot his load just as my mom opened the door."
"Well, Thomas, then I can understand why your dad took the strap to you. I may not have the biceps power of dear old dad, but I want you to remember this one, and remember it you will. This is one for dear ol' dad and all the good things he taught you down here at the end of the bench."
Bill was not in the championship bracket at his tennis club for nothing. He had excellent technique and years of practice had given his slender arm strength well beyond appearance. Bill had an especially wicked backhand. Taking aim, Bill drew the strap back at waist level and whistled it home, shifting his weight forward and following through slightly upward as if he was going for the baseline with a topspin passing shot. The stroke lifted Tom's buttocks and Bill waited a bit while a band an inch wide reddened across the bottom of his white cheeks. A second time Bill licked him and then a third and a fourth and a fifth followed in a slow rhythm. Thomas squirmed side to side as the pistol shots sounded through the small room but he remained across the bench. Deep crimson bands now crossed each other and a small welt had raised on Tom's hip. Tom found himself transported back in time twenty years.
"Were you this stoic as a teenager?" Bill asked, impressed that Tom was taking this strapping without complaint. Bill lightly rubbed his hand across the dark bands, feeling the warmth. Bill's tenacity, both knew, was more than a match for Thomas's stoicism. Bill took aim at the still pristine white of Tom's thighs and laid the strap in right under Tom's buns. That had the desired effect: Thomas shot up, spun to face his, and glowered. Service ace, Bill thought to himself, smiling. And this will be game, set, and match in no time.
"I'm not through with you, young man," Bill said quietly. "Biechtig!" Thomas complied. "If I have to tell you once more, you'll get it again with the paddle when we get home tonight. This is for all those times you sneaked over to the ragbag after your father left and you 'relieved' yourself, as you so euphemistically put it. We'll see how much relief you think you need after I'm finished with you. I don't intend to leave you to enjoy yourself as your father so conveniently did."
Bill continued his monolog, underlining his points with the strap. He took his time, aiming carefully, following through, making sure he felt each one. Sharp staccato cracks echoed off the concrete walls of the shop. He thought of Pug and again smiled as he continued to whale his partner's backside. After fifteen or twenty strokes, Bill switched to his backhand. Slowly Thomas's entire backside turned a deep shade of scarlet overlaid with darker thin lines tracing a crosshatch pattern. This, Thomas thought to himself, was worse than he remembered it from his youth and it was all he could do to grit his teeth and remain in place. But he was not about to give in to Bill. Luckily for him, Bill did not see this as a test of wills and quit around thirty or so.
"Was it as good as your memories said it should be?" Bill asked with a laugh. "Better," he replied as he stood up somewhat stiffly and reached to pull his briefs up over his scalded derriere. "Probably the hardest whipping I ever got," he lied. There were at least two he could remember which easily topped this one but he was not about to let Bill hear that, thank you.
"Liar," he replied. "How soon they forget! Remember the one you got from me the time I caught you with your hand inside Sean's pants at our New Year's Eve party? Or the one you told me your father gave you when he found you peeping through the neighbors windows at the naked girls?" Uncanny memory, Bill, and accurate beyond belief. "Well, I think I'll turn your lie into truth: when we get home tonight you're going to get a second dose to cure your lying. Combined, they just might be the worst you have ever gotten."
Thomas finished buckling his belt and Bill took him into his arms for a prolonged hug.
"How about we start upstairs, instead, and clean out the master bedroom," Thomas suggested. "Maybe we should try out the mattress to see whether it should go in the trash or to the resale shop." There had been a few times in the past when he was able to con his out of a walloping. He slipped around behind Bill, cupping Bill's butt and returning the hug.
"No, you don't. We came here to work and work we will," Bill answered as he pushed him away. "This has got to be done and it is going to take more time than you think, so let's get at it. Don't think for a minute I'll forget about a second installment for you, Thomas. I won't. Take this out to the car so we don't lose it in the pile," he said, handing him the punishment strap. "Now you can bring back the big trash bags and some packing boxes," Bill yelled after Tom had disappeared up the stairs.
For the rest of the afternoon they sorted and trashed and packed furiously and Bill carried up box after box, bag after bag. Three piles grew in the driveway: one for auction, one for the Salvation Army, one for the landfill. It soon became obvious this was going to take even more effort than either had imagined. They would be coming back every day for the rest of the week. Exhausted by the physical labor they rode home in silence and Thomas went for a shower while Bill called out for pizza. He soon joined Tom under the pulsating stream of nearly scalding water.
"Looks like you sat on a hot radiator," Bill snickered as he traced the few lines still marking Thomas's buttocks. "And when I finish paddling you it will feel like you just sat on a radiator," he whispered into Tom's ear.
"Haven't you had enough exercise for one day?" Thomas pleaded.
"A promise is a promise and I keep my word," Bill replied. "Now go towel off and wait for me in the bedroom, Thomas." It was an order, not a request. And Thomas knew compliance was the best option at this point: he would avoid a second dose of "strap oil" (as his father always called it) at any cost.
When Bill came out of the shower he peeked around the corner through the door to the bedroom and saw Tom kneeling nude on the bed, knees spread apart, face pressed to the mattress, and his striped backside raised high, waiting his pleasure. Tom's balls hung low between his wide open legs, his _c_o_c_k_ erect once again in anticipation of the paddling to come.
Bill took his time drying and powdering himself before slipping into a terry cloth robe and joining Tom. With great panache he pulled out Tom's dresser bench and sat down.
"Komm hier, Junge!" he ordered. Thomas walked over to his partner and stood there, naked, waiting, his _c_o_c_k_ hard and beginning to drip. "Get me the paddle, Thomas. You're going to get the final installment of what I started this morning. You're going to learn not to exaggerate when I ask you an honest question." Thomas raised his eyes from the carpet to see if there was any chance he could con his way out of this. There wasn't.
Thomas went to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and took out a well crafted, highly polished walnut paddle. With a fairly long handle it really looked more like a bath brush. Only a quarter inch thick, Thomas knew he could expect plenty of strokes this time. He handed the paddle to his partner.
"Now get the towel, Thomas."
Thomas went to his dresser, took a hand towel from a drawer, then carefully spread in at Bill's feet on the floor. Then, without even being told, Tom lay across Bill's knees with his head nearly touching the floor. Bill spread his knees apart to help distribute the weight and, more importantly, to make a place for Thomas's erection. Bill laid the brush on Tom's back and again traced the lines still visible from the afternoon strapping. Bill saw Tom's gluteal muscles twitch slightly in anticipation. Then he picked up the paddle in his right hand and reached under Thomas's belly with his left to grab hold of Thomas's erection.
"Where did you put the strap, Thomas?" he asked. "We wouldn't want to misplace such a unique and irreplaceable antique, would we?" he teased.
"Downstairs, sir."
"Downstairs, where, Thomas?"
"In the top drawer of my workbench, sir." Thomas clearly wanted to get this over with and, he hoped, get to the reward which sometimes followed one of his Bill's paddlings. Sometimes Bill would call it off once Tom came onto the towel on the floor beneath the bench.
"Like Vater, like Sohn," Bill said with his best--and not very good--German accent. "Such a gut Knabe should have a reward, nein?" Bill knew his feeble attempts at speaking tourist German would make Tom crawl and wince.
"Please!" Tom pleaded, his teeth grinding as he waited for the paddling to begin. Which was worse, he wondered to himself, a blistering with the paddle or listening to his partner try to speak German?
"Bitte? Vas bitte?" Bill wasn't quite through yet getting all the annoyance he could out of this scene.
"Please could you just get it over with, please?!" Thomas meant it, too.
"Bist du fertig?" Bill continued.
"Ich bin fertig, mein Herr!," Tom replied, capitulating to this ridiculous banter. "BITTE! Mein Herr!"
"Well, if you insist," Bill replied as he began to pull Thomas's _c_o_c_k_. Bill swung the paddle up to shoulder height, quickly took aim, and whacked Tom hard, flattening the mound of his already strapped buttocks.
Thomas closed his eyes, clamped his jaws shut, and waited for the next. Bill waited for the full flush to spread and then spanked again; and then again; and again, alternating side to side as the pink darkened to red and then to crimson. The light lines left over from the afternoon's spanking soon disappeared in the deep scarlet which covered everything from hip to hip and from the upper thighs to the top of his buttocks. Very slowly and methodically Bill paddled Tom while jerking him off. Soon enough Tom was bucking and pleading with each added whack and about to come in a cosmic orgasm for the third time that day. Had he not kept his grip on him he likely would have fallen off Bill's lap and landed on the floor.
Then, in one incredible burst, Tom shot his load to the towel on the floor and Bill set the paddle aside.
"Now," Bill said as his paddle stopped raining terror on Tom's buns, "I hope you won't be lying when you claim this spanking will rank in your top five of all time. It took two installments, but that's a first, too."
For the second time that day Thomas slowly and somewhat stiffly rose up and reached back to assess the damage. When he looked over his should into the dresser mirror even he was impressed with the result. "Danke schoen, mein Herr!," he murmured, "I think."
Bill went over to the bed and sat on the edge with his legs hanging over the edge of the bed, spread wide. "Thomas, didn't your father ever tell you that when someone does something special for you, you should s