At five minutes until seven on Friday night, boy scouts seemed to swarm within the small meeting room of the Holiday Inn. They were gathered here for the annual father-son banquet, and the room had been arranged accordingly: three long tables, forming a "U", faced a platform on which stood not only the expected lectern, but three chairs. The signiificance of those chairs, each one armless, as well as the somewhat mischievous twinkle in the eyes of the scoutmaster, Mr Mitchell, escaped the excited boys. Their fathers, they knew, were now congregated in the adjoining hall, waiting for the start of the festivities.
The initial ceremony, with which each scout was supposed to greet his dad, was the presentation of the paddles. Each youth had spent his time in woodworking class making a small wooden paddle as a "gag" gift for his father. These carefully-produced items, each engraved with the words "To Dad, With Love From" followed by the boy's name, were roughly rectangular and fairly thin, suitable for an over-the-knee spanking. Not that they were meant for use - in most cases. Mr Mitchell, who had planned and directed the manufacture of the paddles, had intended these articles as a father-son joke only - in most cases; the boys themselves in every case. The dads, although some would feel obliged to put on a show of authority, and claim they reserved the right to apply these boards if necessary, had no real intention of ever using them - again, in most cases. The paddles now lay on a table at the side of the room, and the boys began to gather there and retrieve their handiwork, for it was almost time for the fathers to enter.
Sandy Ricks and his friends Charlie North and Pete Owen, who formed a practically inseperable trio, were the only boys present in less than a cheerful mood. In fact, these three were utterly perplexed - they couldn't find their paddles. Sandy was about to ask the scoutmaster if he knew anything about this when Mr Mitchell himself appeared behind them.
"They'll turn up," he replied, with a mysterious slyness, to Sandy's inquiry. "But right now I want you three boys to come up on the platform with me."
Sandy, Charlie and Pete exchanged puzzled glances but, accustomed to obeying, followed the scoutmaster to the dais. Meanwhile, the other scouts were happily presenting the delighted dads with the paddles, and the sound of wood striking palm, as almost every father felt compelled to test his son's woodworking skill, fillled the room. These gentlemen had indeed accepted their sons' gifts in the strictly humorous spirit in which they were offered. Each father and son took a seat, and the general merriment moved to the tables.
The young trio on the platform suddenly noticed their own three fathers come in, bringing up the rear. These men, in contrast to the other dads, wore serious expressions, and walked slowly but purposely toward the dais. Mr Mitchell stepped up to the three scouts and said, "Here you are, boys," handing them their missing paddles just as the dads mounted the platform.
Each scout, despite the ominous look of his parent, said something like "Hi, Dad" and held out his paddle hopefully.
The dads crossed their arms across their chests.
Sandy and his friends were completely baffled, as were their fellow scouts, who looked up inquiringly. Some of the dads had perhaps been forewarned what was about to happen. An expectant silence took hold of the assembly.
Mr Ricks broke it by saying "Hello, boys," in a tone that made the three scouts feel they were indeed nothing more than boys. He spoke in a clearly audible tone so that all the guests heard his every word. "You seem a little confused. Well, I won't keep you in suspense any longer. Not that you deserve any consideration, but there's an audience out there eager to get on with the show."
Worry was now added to the puzzlement of Sandy and his buddies.
"It's very simple, boys. We now know who went skinny-dipping last weekend, then saw fit to run by the girl scouts' tents and display themselves."
A horrible enlightenment began to grow in the three scouts.
"Surely I don't need to say anymore, boys?"
Mr Mitchell spoke up, "We can't allow this sort of thing to go unpunished. The honor of the scouts is at stake."
"Exactly," Mr Ricks answered, then addressed his son. "Since you were the ringleader that evening, Sandy, it's only appropriate that I act as ringleader tonight."
"But Dad! I don't know what you mean!"
"No? You aren't too swift, are you, boys? I see I'll have to spell it out. Those paddles you three made are about to get used!"
He beckoned with a finger to the other two dads. All three walked over and sat in the chairs, then began rolling up their shirt sleeves.
In the meantime, Sandy, Charlie and Pete gazed down at the boards they held with a feeling of increasing discomfort. Then the amused murmuring among the other scouts that had been provoked by Mr Ricks' final words drew their attention. The boys' cheeks began to blush as their alarm grew. Sandy whirled to face his father. "Not here, Dad. You must be joking. Aren't you?"
"Right here and now, Sandy. No joke. So why don't you boys step over here?"
Trancelike, they moved, each boy to the side of his seated father. The crowd's excitement was building.
"Oh, by the way, boys. Mr Mitchell has made a slight addition to your paddles. Turn them over and have a look."
Sandy flipped his board, and his eyes and mouth widened. Engraved in bright red letters were the words "For the Cute Little Dear with the Bare Butt!"
As the awful significance of this dawned on all three culprits, Mr Ricks chuckled. "That's right, boys. Your pants are coming down."
The guilty scouts were too overcome to respond. Each dad took the paddle held almost liflelessly in the griip of his stunned son.
Mr Ricks continued. "You boys shouldn't object - you obviously enjoy exposing yourselves. Of course here we have a nice bright light, and everyone can see you. I don't think it's going to be quite the same. Let's find out." He turned first to one of his colleagues, then the other. "Ready, gentlemen?" he asked, and was answered by each with a nod and a smile. Mr Ricks turned back. "All right, then, boys. Pull down your pants."
The boys just stood there. At last Mr Ricks half rose from his chair in an unimistakably menacing manner. Sandy shouted "I'm pulling! I'm pulling!" and with his two partners in crime, fumbled wildly with the buttons of their scout uniform trousers.
As a result of these uncontrolled endeavours, the boys' pants fell about their ankles before they realized what they had done. Laughter from the tables greeted this partial exposure, as three young men with their underpants revealed make a undeniably comic sight. The boys couldn't help looking over their shoulders at this unsympathetic audience, and their blushes deepened.
Meanwhile, each father was testing his son's gift by smacking it against his thigh. The boys had indeed done a good job on those paddles, as they were soon to discover.
Sandy, Charlie and Pete were about to lay themselves humbly across their impatient parents' laps when Mr Ricks interrupted. "Oh no, boys. Don't your paddles say 'bare butt'?" He conducted an unneccesary examination of the indicated inscription. "Yes, just as I thought. And it's always best to follow the instructions, boys. Sooo..." he pointed to the floor, "Drop 'em!"
The boys had to obey. This time, they couldn't bring themselves to glance around at the excited audience. Ever so reluctantly, they pulled their underpants down their thighs, just enough to bare their butts. Their fellow scouts erupted with laughter at the sight, and most of the dads at least smiled. The latter enjoyed a touch of fatherly pride, as they weren't suffering the embarrassment of having to punish such unruly sons.
The three were now eager to crawl over their dad's knee and reduce, by however little, some of their unwelcome prominence. The fathers arranged their sons into a comfortable (for themselves) position, making sure that those naked butts were conveniently poised for what was to follow.
Mr Ricks completed these adjustments to his satisfaction; and after darting a questioning look at each of his fellow spankers, raised his paddle in unison with them. Then...
Ker-smack! The resounding crack of wood against butt, multiplied threefold, filled the banquet room. All three dads had somehow managed to strike simultaneously, and their sons' howled responses were almost as synchronized. Spanked by their own paddles - how fitting. And each of those handcrafted boards had left a stinging red rectangle on one unlucky butt cheek.
Smackety-smack-smack! After the fiirst blow, the three angry fathers didn't bother to coordinate their licks. Each had his own spanking style, each equally effective. Each son had his own style of yelping, equally loud. The cries were heartfelt, and more importantly, buttfelt.
Smackety-smack-smack! It didn't take long to make an impression on those tender little boy scout tails. The culprits kicked their legs and pounded their fists on the floor, protesting unreasonably against this more than deserved fatherly correction. Yet the fathers continued to correct, the sons to protest, and the butts to get redder.
Smackety-smack-smack! Sandy and company were squalling so they were oblivious to the admiring shouts of the audience. Later of course, the very memory of this dreadful humiliation would cause the boys to blush once again. Imagine: a bare butt spanking at their age! And here they were, crying like babies! Tsk tsk.
Soon Mr Ricks, noticing the other fathers' faltering rhythm, sensed that they felt their boys had had enough. Not deterred, he whacked away. When his colleagues stopped at last, Mr Ricks told his bawling son, "Since you were the instigator of that little prank, Sandy, I think it's only fair that you have a brighter red butt than your accomplices!" He surveyed Sandy's rear end, observing that it was already in an advanced stage of scarlet. "Nobody else may be able to appreciate the fact, but you will, I promise!" And to keep his promise, Mr Ricks made his last several swats absolute scorchers.
When the paddling ceased, the silence, broken only by the boys' sobbing and their fellow scouts' taunts, was overwhelming. Lying across their fathers' laps, the well-tanned trio somehow managed through their tears to promise to be good boys. Mr North used the occasion to rub his paddle's still warm surface. "I can tell you put a lot of effort into this, son. It's a fine piece of work" Mr Owen agreed, and added, "I just hope it can stand all the use it's going to get from now on."
Released at last from their fathers' grip, the boys stood, and whatever modesty they had preserved up to now vanished.. Their underpants sailed down to join their pants around their ankles; and as each boy hopped in an incomparable display of butt-rubbing, his young manhood bounced every which way.
"What! Are you boys exposing yourselves again?" Mr Ricks shouted. "How dare you embarrass us!" He and the other two dads stood and spun their chairs around, then made their sons bend over the back and grab the seat, and thus stick their bright red butts up and out.
Mr Ricks addressed the audience. "Now I want all you fathers and sons to come up and judge whether the scouts' honor has been vindicated."
The three boys, who had felt they had been completely humiliated already, now had to endure a half-hour of exhibiting their rosy red rumps to the mocking crowd. There were 'oohs" and "ahhs". There were jeers of mock sympathy, such as, "Aw, is your little butt sore?" Some of the dads made comments such as, "See, son, this is what happens to bad boys." A few bold scouts even poked the glowiing buns to see if they were as hot as they looked (they were).
At last the satisfied onlookers returned to the tables. Mr Ricks asked, "Well, boys, would you like to pull up your pants?"
"Oh, yes, sir, please!" they chorused.
Mr Ricks chuckled. "Okay. Ask your scoutmaster's permission. But very politely, boys, or you'll stay this way all evening long."
My, those boys were polite!
"Okay, boys," Mr Mitchell laughed, "You may pull up your pants. Then, if you and your dads would take your seats..."
Seats!
Sandy and his friends had been assigned places in a very conspicious location, and their fellow scouts were treated throughout the banquet to the squirms and red faces of the three boys.
Midway through the meal, Mr Mitchell came around. "I just want you dads to know that the next crafts project will involve working in leather. I'm going to have all the boys make belts for their fathers."
The still tingling trio gaped in horror.
"What's the matter, boys?" their scoutmaster teased. "Don't you want to make a nice thick leather belt for dear old Dad?"
Mr Ricks said, "That's a fine idea, isn't it, Sandy? I've been meaning to buy me a good belt. Not for keeping my pants up, you understand..."
Sandy moaned. He understood perfectly.