The trap was set. It was brilliant, really. Deceptively simple. Beneath the stifling sun of a July afternoon in the early days of the 1980?s, the trap was set, and it was ready to be sprung. Will Tanner was about to get the surprise of his young life.
Will was a punk. A jock-punk, to be sure, but a punk nonetheless. With a vocabulary composed primarily of variations on four-letter words beginning with the letter ?f? and a passing arm that led his team to the AAA Division playoffs two years in a row, Will Tanner was used to being in control. His mother could testify to that. So could her neighbors, who witnessed the almost-nightly incidents that had by now become a common denominator at neighborhood dinner tables: ?Will Tanner came home at 2:00am again? beer bottles on the lawn?.he? s always picking on the smart boys? beats them up for fun? his poor mother, left alone to raise a boy like that? thank God he left her a little money? for Pete? s sake, he? s a rising senior - won? t that boy ever grow up??you stay away from that Tanner boy, you understand?..he? s a bad seed? I?d straighten that little punk out if he were under my roof??? Will heard the talk. It made him laugh.
So it happened that on a mid-summer? s day, Will Tanner pulled his reconditioned Corvette Stingray into the parking lot at Southwest High School. The heat steamed off the asphalt in a visible haze, and his tanned back stuck to the vinyl seat like cling-wrap. Will swung out of the low bucket seat, pulled on a football jersey and threw his head backwards and slightly to one side, a trademark motion designed to sling the thick shock of hair that hung down over his left eye out of the way. His mother said he needed a haircut. ?F--- that!? thought Will. He remembered when his uncle had come to visit last summer to ?straighten him out? and had tried to make him go to the barbershop. Will had slit his tires and used the haircut money at the video arcade.
The school had been closed for the summer for 6 weeks now. It was the last place Will would have chosen to come on a Wednesday afternoon, but last night Coach Squires had called him on his cellphone, asking Will to meet him around back of the gym at noon. Something about hauling some old lockers and equipment off to the dump with a bunch of other guys. Said he? d pay Will $25.00. He would have done it for nothing, actually. Will liked Coach Squires, who never let him get away with slacking off at practice. Oh, sure, he cussed him behind his back and put up a front of sneering at the Coach? s ex-Marine precision and neatness, but Will liked him. Once he had had a dream that Coach Squires was his father. In the dream, they had gone fishing together, and had cleaned the fish and cooked them on a campfire for Will? s mom, who had cried and said she loved them both. Now, as he crossed the pavement in his worn high-tops, the dream drifted across his mind. Will snapped his thoughts back into the moment, spitting out his words onto the cracked sidewalk that ran beside the gym: ?Stupid f---ing dream? what a stupid motherf---ing lame-ass dream.? As he rounded the corner, he glanced at his watch. 12:15pm. Coach had said noon. So where was everybody? He didn? t see any crap to be hauled away. Just a note on the backdoor of the Varsity boy? s locker-room. It read: ?WILLIAM (Coach always called him that? nobody else ever had and Will secretly liked the sound of it), COME THROUGH LOCKER-ROOM TO HALLWAY. WE? RE INSIDE MOVING LOCKERS NOW. 12noon. COACH SQUIRES.? Will shrugged, tossed his head and tugged on the metal handle of the locker-room door that led out to the practice field. It was open.
?Hello? Hey, Coach?? Will called into the darkness as the door closed behind him. He could barely make out the familiar outlines of the locker-room by the sunlight that filtered in through the ventilation windows high above the lockers. His hand reached into the darkness, feeling for a wall and a light switch, but touched cold metal instead. The shower pole. Will? s hands felt around the nozzles that jutted from the pole at all angles. He remembered the time in P. E. class when he had pushed the school? s math geek Bradley Johnston across that slippery shower floor, sending him crashing into the five guys gathered around the next shower pole, creating a soapy pile of bare white asses, gangly legs and arms and outraged faces. ?Hey, Johnston, watch where you? re stepping!? he had said, making it appear to be Bradley? s fault and effectively guaranteeing him the pounding that continued until Coach Squires had pulled the naked bodies apart and sent Bradley and his tormentors to the office for fighting. Will had laughed so hard he thought he would stop breathing. Now he walked across the same shower floor until he reached the wall where he knew the light switch would be. Where the hell was Coach, anyway?
?Over here, William,? came the coach? s distinctive voice from out of the darkness. At the same moment the light in Coach? s office came on. In the harsh light he could just make out Coach Squires sitting in the chair behind his desk, head bend down. ?Come in, William,? he said. As he entered the office, the figure behind the desk lifted his head, leaving Will Tanner staring straight into the face of Chris Greene, president of the school? s drama club and all-around nerd. ?What the f---??? WHAT the f-?? Will? s profanities were silenced from behind by a crude gag of gym sock, then a hastily-applied wrapping of duct tape. In the shock of the moment he dropped his defenses for just a second, perhaps two. It was enough. Enough to allow him to be forced to his knees and, despite his best efforts, securely hogtied. Grunting and struggling wildly on the grimy tile floor, Will rolled over onto his back to face his assailants. Chris Greene and Bradley Johnston. The thoughts raced through his mind. ?_s_h_i_t_! _s_h_i_t_! What the f--- is this about? God _d_a_m_n_ those geeks! What the hell do they think they? re doing?? It was not in Will? s nature to make connections between his predicament and oh, let? s say, for example, the time he had drunkenly run over the mountain bike Chris had worked after school for 6 months to buy and then lied about it, or the time he had set fire to Bradley? s locker, destroying his computer science and math projects, or the innumerable times that he had singled them out for humiliation, punishment, embarrassment and derision in front of the other jocks for, well, Will wasn? t actually sure WHY he had done these things?.hell, just because they were nerds, that? s why! What other reason did he need? Jocks pick on nerds. So what? That? s the way it is. But Will thought about none of these things at the moment. Only about kicking their little geeky asses when he got up. And he WOULD get up, he swore behind his make-shift but effective gag.
?Wow, we really did it! I can? t believe it, we really did it!,? Chris cried to Bradley in equal measures of ecstasy and amazement. ?OK. We did it. Now shut UP!!!? Bradley laughed in reply, eyeing the thrashing figure at his feet. Bradley? s height and akwardness had made him a PE class outcast early on, although his build was quite good and his frame was one that could, with a little work, support an impressive physique. He wore multi-zippered camping pants and a t-shirt reading ?Mathematics Is No Trivial Pursuit; ? the hopelessly uncool message highlighting his broad masculine chest in comic contrast. Bradley removed his wire-frame glasses and wiped them on his t-shirt, stroking his jaw thoughtfully. He was obviously enjoying this moment of contemplation. But Chris couldn? t stay still, walking around the writhing punk? s form and rubbing his hands like a first-time pledgemaster on hell night. ?Oh, boy - oh, man, - I can? t believe this!? he repeated. Chris was lean and hawk-nosed, with a case of acne that had only worsened since its onset in middle school; his drama club t-shirt adorned by a Star Trek communicator pin. All Chris? shirts had holes in them for his communicator pin, despite his mother? s best attempts to ?accidentally lose that _d_a_m_n_ed Star Wars thing!? ?Star TREK, mom,? Chris constantly corrected her with rolling eyes, ?Star TREK.? His mother obviously didn? t appreciate the role that Starfleet played in Chris? s life, or in his room, for that matter.
The plan had been hatched on a lazy June afternoon at Bradley? s house, beginning as a joke and gradually progressing to reality in stages between TV reruns and Nintendo battles. It was really very simple. Give Will Tanner a dose of his own medicine. Let him know how it felt to be low man on the totem pole. It was Bradley? s idea. Chris had filled in the first piece of the puzzle by launching into his hilarious impression of Coach Squires? distinctive clipped speech. ?Wait a minute?,? they had both said together, sharing the same evil grin. From there it was small potatoes for Bradley to get Will? s cell-phone number and to figure out the best day and time for their ruse. Access to the school had been a stumbling block until the boys had hit inspirational paydirt while watching Matthew Broderick escape from a holding room in ?War Games? using a miniature tape recorder and alligator clips. Bradley had claimed it was his idea all along to get past the thumb-lock and alarm system this way, but Chris had called his name in to the Matthew Broderick fan club anyway. Chris could be a real smart-ass when he put his mind to it. The big question was - what to do with Will once they had subdued him? Of course, really harming him was out of the question; and it had to be something that he would never turn them in for or try to retaliate for. Now THAT was a tall order. It was Bradley who suggested the paddling. Chris agreed immediately. After all, they both had grown up with liberal doses of the board of education, and Will had probably never had the dubious honor of bending over for an ass-whipping. He? d never attend college, so he? d never pledge a frat like Chris? brother, who reported frequent swattings his pledge year. In the end, they had decided that it might be the only experience with a paddle Will would ever have. The boys had no way of knowing that Will had actually made more than one trip to Coach Squires? office after practice for offenses both major and minor. Coach had never paddled him in front of his team-mates. He liked Will, and he intuitively sensed such public discipline would be less effective for him than a private paddling from a father-surrogate whom he respected. Coach Squires had learned a thing or two from the raising of his own three sons. ?It sure would be a shame for him to never have his butt blistered!? Chris had laughed. ?But he? ll tell for sure!? Bradley? s smile had been slow and deliberate. ?No he won? t. Not the way I? m planning it.?
But now the planning was over. Literally at their feet lay the guy who had made their lives hell over the last three years at Southwest High. It was table-turning time. ?Here, help me get him to the bench over in front of the lockers,? Bradley said as both boys hoisted Will up off the office floor. ?Wrap this duct tape around his ankles so he can? t kick.? Chris completed the job rapidly, then held up the roll to his cheek and said in his best mock-sincere announcer voice, ?Duct tape. Is there anything it CAN? T do?? ?C? mon, man, lift him? Bradley said, surpressing a laugh. Chris cracked him up but he had other things on his mind now. This part of the plan was his responsibility and hadn? t been discussed with Chris in detail. ?_d_a_m_n_, he? s heavy,? muttered Chris, breathing hard as they dragged the increasingly-furious Will to the bench. ?What now?? Bradley surveyed the long wooden bench, bolted to the floor, with satisfaction. ?Yep. This? ll work. OK. Now we have to lay him face down on the bench.? Chris beamed as he realized the positioning of the bully would leave his big butt facing up into the air. How often had he been in that position himself at the hands of his dad, his uncle, his older cousin. It seemed to Chris that everybody in their small town had had license to bust his ass over the past 5 years. The thought came without resentment, though. Hell, he was none the worse for it and after all, he had richly deserved every spanking he? d received. Just like Will deserved this one. _d_a_m_n_, this was fun. ?Captain, I cannah give you that much power! She won? t hold!? he intoned as he and Bradley completed the difficult maneuver. ?Here, Scotty,? murmured Bradley, ?take these ropes and tie his feet under the bench really tight. Use a lot of knots. I? ll get his hands. You? ll have to cut the tape and then work quickly so he can? t kick.? As Chris pulled out his pocketknife, Bradley halted him. ?Wait! Take his shoes off first.? Chris threw him a questioning look. ?Huh? His shoes?? but then did it, sliding the battered Nikes off and to the floor. ?Now his pants.? Chris? mouth hung open. ?His PANTS? Hello, this is WILL FREAKING TANNER here, Brad! He? ll KILL us if we take his pants off!? ?I know what I? m doing? was Bradley? s authoritative response. ?Get his pants off. I? ll get his shirt.? A few wriggling moments later, both boys rose to admire their handiwork. Will Tanner, lying face down on the bench, hands and feet securely tied, clad only in his torn Fruit of The Looms and dingy athletic socks. Bradley couldn? t help but notice his solid build and cut muscles. Will? s deep summer tan made his underwear look incredibly white by contrast. The sight of the target so vulnerably exposed seemed to prompt a sobering change in mood; a momentary silence broken only by Will? s continued cursing and heavy breathing through his nose. Chris spoke first. ?Now what?? Bradley? s eyes were fixed upon the expanse of white fabric, tightly conforming like a second skin to the grooves and curves of Will? s well-defined butt. With a sudden movement he grabbed a handful of the punk? s briefs and tore them, quite literally, from his body, letting the shreds fall to the floor at his feet. ?Now,? he said quietly, ?now we begin.?
When Will would examine his butt over the next few days in his bedroom mirror, he would notice the solid stripes of redness beneath the other marks. The stripes seemed to correspond exactly with a band of incredible soreness that ran horizontally across his fleshy cheeks. He would wonder what had caused these bands of sensitivity; his mind having lumped all the discipline he had received into one blurred but indelible memory. He had been face down, after all. At least at the first. And he had had a couple of beers on the way to the school. So he had never seen the razor strop.
A pity that he did not have a more organized memory, really. A male? s first real honest-to-God razor stropping is a singular event that should never be forgotten; a shock to body, ego and mind that forever changes he who lies beneath the horsehide, naked and humbled as the time-honored object of his momentary hatred rains fire down upon his ass and cold water upon his pride. The moment of breaking, when will collapses and cursing turns to sobbing, is a moment that teaches a life-lesson men can learn in few other ways: that men are responsible for their actions. That payback is hell. And that wrong-doing, even when forgiven, deserves punishment. Punishment to clear the air, level the playing field, to heal old wounds, to allow a fresh start. The words ?Now that? s over with? you? ve paid your debt? are distinctly male words. Tribal words, almost. Words that every man must hear if he is to be a man. But they come at a price.
Will Tanner was paying that price now. It was Chris? turn with the strop (his father? s own) now; Will? s second set of 25. The first, at Bradley? s hands, had elicited wild yelps and struggling, but as Chris layed on the next set with obvious glee (?Revenge,? he chanted in a Ricardo Montalban accent, ?is a dish best served cold, Kirk!?) a noticeable change in demeanor had come over Will. He had quieted down a little, still breathing hard, but not squirming so much now. His fists had relaxed a bit, and his back muscles no longer arched his upper torso off of the bench in protest. Inside himself, Will was losing control of his thoughts. And losing his usual will to control them, as a matter of fact. His eyes were closed now, and a flood of images flashed across the theater of his mind as if illuminated by lightning: Coach Squires leaning across the desk, talking earnestly to him about his future; his own father swatting his butt with a ruler before the day before he had died; his mom crying. The sound of his own voice; the remembrance of his own cruel and thoughtless actions; these were abhorrent to him now. ?I? m a _s_h_i_t_,? he thought. ?A real _s_h_i_t_. Just like that dude in the Christmas book who pisses everybody off.? So far, not a word had been spoken, but beneath the pain, Will suddenly understood. It wasn? t just some geeks who he had crapped on who were beating his ass. It was everybody he? d ever done wrong. And THAT was a _s_h_i_t_load of people.
The sound of Bradley? s voice in his ear jolted him back to reality; to the bright humming florescent overhead lights, to the pool of sweat on the tile of the locker-room floor beneath his head, to the searing pain in his hindquarters. ?You know who we are? You know why this is happening? Do you?? Bradley was close to Will? s face, his hot breath making the punk? s ears twitch; one hand poised just above Will? s steaming rump, feeling the heat rise like the haze on the asphalt outside. To Bradley? s shock there was no muffled curse in response to his sarcastic questions. Only silence, a pause and a nod. Will? s eyes met Bradley? s directly; a deep gaze.. It was an unsettling moment. Bradley recovered his composure, hissing the words he had planned for this moment. ?You _s_h_i_t_ on people, Will. People who don? t deserve it. Now you know how it feels.? With that, the voice in Will? s ear was gone, replaced by two high above his head. Will could not know that the boys had swapped out the strop for Coach Squire? s famous paddle. Chris peered at Bradley through the four neatly drilled holes that ran the length of it. ?What are the holes for?? he inquired thoughtfully, then answered himself in the voice of Mr. Rogers from educational TV. ?Uh, huh, I see. The holes lessen the aerodynamic resistance, don? t they, boys and girls? Yes they do. Can you say ?aerodynamic,? Will? Huh? Can you? I thought you could!? Bradley grabbed the paddle? s handle with obvious irritation. ?Gimme that, numbnuts - and quit making fun of him.? Chris shot Bradley a quizzical gaze. What was this newfound sympathy for the punk? ?You going soft, Brad?? The reply was even. ?No. I just want him to remember this. It? s serious business. Watch and learn, my boy.? With that Bradley smoothly cut the ropes that bound Will? s feet, reached under his torso and pulled him up to his knees on the bench, ass high, head low. To Chris? amazement, Will offered no resistance but assumed the position and remained there, breathing calmer now and looking back at Bradley as if to be fully aware of the next phase of his punishment. If Chris thought that was amazing, he was dumbfounded when his eyes dropped down to see Will? s penis swelling rapidly. His eyes grew wide. Bradley caught the look and said, ?Hey, that? s a natural reaction. Its involuntary. I read about it. Most guys get a boner during or after a spanking. It? s just nerve endings, is all. I? ll bet you? ve popped one yourself on your dad.? That was enough to flood Chris? cheeks with crimson and turn his head away from the sight of what was now undeniably a full-blown hard-on.
Bradley aimed the paddle, lining up the four holes evenly across the width of Will? s cheeks, two holes on each side. He drew back the wood and was preparing for his first swing when he suddenly stopped, leaned forward and spoke in Will? s ear again, with less sarcasm this time. ?Hey, I want to take this stuff out of your mouth, but you? ve got to promise me you won? t start yelling. If you do, you? ll get it worse. Can I trust you? Whattayasay?? Will did not answer at first, but Bradley waited for what he had sensed would come, the affirmative nod. The tape was peeled back from his mouth and the sock removed. Will sucked in the air through his mouth, started to speak but thought better of it, and simply looked at Bradley and Chris. ?You know why you? re getting this, Will?? Bradley was squatting down on his haunches now, on Will? s level. ?Man, you just make life hell for everybody. _s_h_i_t_, Will, I don? t want to hurt you, I don? t even hardly KNOW you, but you act like you have the right to?.oh, hell, you know what I? m talking about don? t you?? Will? s reply was low and flat. ?Yeah, I know.? Bradley pushed the envelope. ?You want this paddle to teach you a lesson???boy? You want it?? Chris could hardly suppress a giggle but Bradley? s withering gaze cut it off clean. ?You want this lesson?? The answer came in body language as Will? s knees drew closer to his chest, lifting his seared butt high. ?What am I doing?? he thought, ?am I crazy?? But there was an instinct deep within him that was overpowering pride and logic now. The long-awaited correction had come to the little brat inside him, and like a wave moving with gathering force to its breaking point, it could not be stopped now. Yeah, he wanted the punishment. He needed it. Even at the hands of these two geeks. No one would ever know. They couldn? t prove anything. What the hell? Let it rip. He wanted it.
Bradley? s first swat landed with a thundering clap, wood meeting buttmeat with a solid satisfying connection that made the rounds of the locker-room and returned to Will? s ears just before the jolting pain reached his consciousness. ?OwwwwWWWWWOWWWWW!? he cried involuntarily, suddenly thrust into another world; a simpler world; a world of right and wrong; of crime and punishment. Time ceased to have meaning except for the space between swats. Seconds? Minutes? He couldn? t tell anymore. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five.
?OWWW_d_a_m_n_ITOH_s_h_i_t_OH_s_h_i_t_OH_s_h_i_t_HOLYOWWWWWWW!!! The swings came rapidly now, Bradley carefully lining up the holes each time, his feet shoulder- width apart, a light covering of sweat on his forehead. The two seemed to be moving in some unspoken rhythm, Will? s thrusting butt meeting the paddle and retracting with almost mathematical precision, Bradley thought. Like Will, he was in the moment, unaware of anyone or anything but his task, and the new and pleasurable sense of righteous power he felt growing within him with each swat. Then, as suddenly and as instinctively as he had begun, Bradley stopped, laid the paddle down on Will? s sweat-drenched back and closed his eyes. A surge of? what the hell was it? well, a surge of SOMETHING was sweeping through him, and he wanted to experience it. He shivered as he imagined the something passing through him with a jolt and bursting into the atmosphere. When he opened his eyes, Will was down off his knees and had rolled over onto his side, chest heaving with what looked for all the world like sobs, legs askew, his muscular butt a rich even red with stripes and splotches here and there, only a bit of its original whiteness evident beneath the new color scheme. A neat row of four circular welts ran horizontally across his cheeks. Only four. Bradley? s aim had been remarkably true. Will? s butt was still contracting on it? s own, the spasms slowing to a gradual halt. Chris, who had retreated to a corner during the intensity of the last several minutes, noted that Will? s erection was gone. A natural reaction, he guessed Bradley would say.
Bradley placed a hand on Will? s smoking rear end, prompting a whine and a new set of contractions from the blistered mounds. Will wiped away his tears. He had been a punk a half-hour ago. Now he felt more like a whipped, whimpering puppy. Strangely, he felt more relief than anger at the moment. Bradley spoke. ?We? re almost done here. Did you learn a lesson?? There was no hesitation in the nod, although Will directed it to Bradley alone. He didn? t like Chris much, but Bradley seemed less of a geek to him now, in a way he didn? t quite understand but recognized as true nonetheless. ?Good,? Bradley said coolly, ?Good?.But you know, Will, we need to make sure that you never tell anybody about this.? Will? s words came with a sincerity that surprised even him. ?I ain? t gonna tell, man. This business was between us. This _s_h_i_t_ is over with. I guess I had it coming.? Bradley? s words cut him off. ?Yeah, but I have to be SURE about that. You understand? Now there? s one more step to your punishment. Lie flat on your back.? Rebellion and protest grew in Will? s face. ?No, no, no more paddling. No more paddling. You? re done. This won? t hurt. Now let? s get it over with,? his gaze was hard and direct as he slammed the redwood paddle into his open palm, ?unless you want to visit Coach Squire? s special friend again??
Will rolled over.
?OK, Chris, this is where I need you most,? Bradley called. He had pulled his dad? s 35mm camera out of his gym bag and was focusing now on Will? s bare chest. ?Hey, wait a minute, man,? Will began, tugging on his wrist-ropes furiously. Bradley? s voice took on new toughness. ?Listen you _s_h_i_t_-ass PUNK! I strapped your ass and I will by-God strap it again until you can? t sit down for a motherf----ing MONTH if you don? t shut up!!? It was hard to tell whose eyes were wider, Will? s or Chris?. Silence hung in the air of the locker-room and mingled with the salty scent of sweat. Bradley leaned down close to Will, his voice more controlled and soothing. ?Hey, man, we? re not gonna tell anybody about this ever. And these pictures won? t be shown to anybody ever. As long as you keep your mouth shut and your nose clean. But the first time you mess with me or my buddy or anybody else who can? t fight you back - they go up on the net, and into a flier that goes out to everybody we know, including your mom. Get it? Got it? Good.? Will? s face was flushed. He had no choice but to comply. _d_a_m_n_ it. _d_a_m_n_ it. He had brought this all on himself. ?OK Chris,? Bradley directed, ?stand over Will? good..right there..now here? s the final touch. Put your dick in his mouth.?
?WHATTT? You are a crazy-ass fool, Bradley Johnston! I? m not putting my dick in his mouth or anybody else? s - you think I? m some kind of ?queer or something?!?? Bradley? s easy laugh only enraged Chris more. ?I? m not even gonna get into THAT, numbnuts. You are so stupid sometimes. I need a picture that we KNOW this guy doesn? t ever want anybody to see. Its our insurance.? Chris hesitated a bit. ?Well, then you put your dick in his mouth and I? ll take the picture.? ?You don? t know HOW to take pictures!! Remember how you ruined the ones of us in Boy Scouts? I don? t trust you behind a camera. Now let? s go - we need to move or we? re gonna get caught here. Somebody might have already heard us! GO! Stop your bitching and do it!? Chris? s hands shook as he lowered his zipper. _d_a_m_n_ Bradley. He always made sense. He always made sense. Chris? eyes drifted to Will? s midsection as he dropped his boxers, suddenly ashamed of his size in comparison to the athlete? s. Will? s mouth was half-open but his eyes were shut tightly. That was good. Chris didn? t want him to see this, either. He clenched his own eyes shut and guided his small penis between the punk? s parted lips. ?There! It? s in! Now take the _d_a_m_n_ed picture now, Bradley! From the waist DOWN! No showing my face! Take it! Hurry!?
The flash illuminated the entire scene. As Chris opened his eyes, he was reminded of those horror movies where the killer was lurking behind the victim, and the person who saw him there could only point and stammer while the poor slob said ?What are you pointing at?? At least there was no killer behind Bradley.
There was, however, the unmistakable form of Coach Squires.
TO BE CONTINUED...