I did it. Maybe it was because I liked being spanked. Maybe I liked being spanked because I liked being naked. Maybe I liked being naked because it had been such a convention with my father. Maybe I got too used to it. Maybe I had been spoilt by the rod.
Maybe it's true what they say - what goes around does come around.
Or maybe it was just a normal human reaction to the eroded notions of love and promises to be loved that I did what I did. I was that hungry for exposure. Throwing caution to the wind, forgetting to guard myself from the risks of rejection and disease, I went underground in search of a daddy and a good spank. Maybe it was under the matrix of self-preservation that I did it.
I was 22. I was a student in New York City, that pinnacle of all artistic and cultural accomplishments, that mega-wealthy city on whose well-oiled cogs the wheels of fortune turned day and night, that triumph of civilization where anyone of its eleven million people could make his dream reality and did. Eleven million denizens, yet I was alone. And I was bitching. It was time to do something about my loneliness.
I had left behind family to be in New York. I was eighteen, and that was four years ago. That was the last time my father's hands had indented my bottom. Four years had been too long.
Ah, but then there was my defacto and lover, Ky.
Wrong. There was no Ky. Ky left me over six months ago for France, Paris no less, to be reunited with his mother and to take up a study fellowship at one of the universities there. Six months ago, he left behind a void in our apartment and my soul. Six months ago was the last time he had left his handprints on my bottom. Six months had been too long also.
Besides Father and Ky, there were two other men who had used to spank me: my stepbrother, Mishka, and my grandcousin, Kirin. Mishka I had given up on for he had found a lover, our cousin-three-times-removed, Nikita. Between having to spank Niki and nurturing his infant political career and his philanthropic errands, Mishka's filofax was chock-a-block. Kirin, on the other hand, I could not really rely on to meet my needs for he was straight. He could never spank me in the context of homoeroticism and so had wiped his hands of my idiosyncrasies.
Why did they all have to be so darn rigid?
Of course, nobody said I had a monopoly on any of the men's time and attention. Nor did any of them owe me anything. My therapist had reminded me about this too often. The last time Dr. Kim had told me this, I had told him to put a cork in it and vowed to see the last of his Fifth Avenue office. But in less than a month I was back there.
"What do you really want to do?" Robert Kim asked me. His fingers were locked into each other. He had formed a steeple with his twin indices.
"I think I must do what makes me happy," I told the American-born Korean sage.
"And what does make you happy?" Bob asked again.
I knew the answer but pretended not to. "I'll go figure that out and let you know next week," I answered instead.
And I was paying Bob $140 an hour to tell him this?
But as I said, I knew the answer. My browser was already pointing me to the appropriate URL. I had been staring at the address for a month now. What the hell, I thought, and then a deft millisecond maneuver of my right-hand index later, the monitor before me flashed me a reading of names. They were mostly Anglo-Saxon first names and some garishly exotic noms de plume. Kev, Tyson, Bruce, Howard, George, Lord Lucknow, Prince of Ties, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I clicked on one of the et ceteras and perused the information on the web page. I copied out a certain Jim Y's e-mail address because he had said that he was fifty-something and because he had put in his bottom line, the safety net, "no questions asked, just describe your favored scene." That done, I tacked the address on my memo board above the console table, and after that, I crawled into bed.
A week later, I failed to make my Fifth Avenue appointment, but instead had exploited the time to e-mail Jim Y. Three days later, I received a reply.
"Your scenario interests me. Give me your number and wait for my call on Friday at 8 P. M.," Jim's message in my inbox had said.
I was completely aware of the fact that the message had been to the point and smelled of authority. I felt turned on for that very reason and, had I not been tired from a day of mid-terms, I might have had to wank away my urgency.
I typed an equally succinct reply to Jim's message and included my telephone number with it, as he had requested. Friday rolled round and I waited by the phone. Jim's call came right on the dot. I picked it up and politely articulated a nominal greeting. To my embarrassment, my voice had squeaked. On the other hand, I heard a gruff sonorant on the other end.
"Han?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, hyperventilating.
"Jim."
"Yes, Jim," I said, correcting myself hesitantly.
"Han your real name?"
"Abbreviated, sir, I mean Jim," I said.
"Okay, let's cut right to the chase," Jim continued. "If you haven't changed your mind about all this, I'll be at your place tomorrow at this time. What's your address?"
I murmured my address to Jim, wondering if this was all going to be a big mistake. About the same time, I heard a voice assail my conscience. "Live dangerously," it said.
Paying heed to the disembodied voice, I told Jim I hadn't changed my mind and didn't intend to.
"Good. I want you in your thirteen-year-old clothes when I arrive, and I want to see your pits and crotch shaved and smooth as a baby's," Jim commanded at last and then hung up.
My penis was already rousing at the command. For that had been the description of my scene to Jim. I had wanted to be punished like a thirteen-year-old once more, I had told him in my e-mailed preliminary, the way it had been for me when my father had spanked me for the first time.
I awoke early the following day. I had an afternoon study group meeting and went through that with my mind meandering somewhere in space. Two hours later, I rushed home on the subway train.
I hurriedly assessed my apartment first. It was a decorator's disgrace. There was the classic scenario of socks and shoes in the hallway and clipboards and study notes on the kitchen counters. There was even spilt chocolate shake on the linoleum and spilt pee on the toilet seat. I thought about putting the place in order but changed my mind at the last minute. Let's see if Jim could exploit the mess, I told myself.
I hit the bathroom next and threw off all my clothes. I left my shirt, sweats and jeans in a messy pool on the tiled floor. I continued to ignore my training in good housekeeping and left my clothes to fall naturally into the general scheme of household management. Instead I went and stood in front of the mirror. I assessed my body and felt remorseful that I had not been less of an Epicurean. I was bloated from an excessive indulgence in gourmet cooking. I didn't look thirteen. I looked thirty.
"Gee, this house is in a worse shape than the apartment," I said of my own body. "But never mind, the razor should take care of things." I slopped shaving cream very generously onto my armpits first and then my crotch and under my testicles, too, very close to my anus. I unwrapped a new disposable razor and set myself to the messy task of shaving away all my body hair, which, since Ky forsook me, had taken liberty to remake me as a Cro Magnon youth.
The entire grooming ceremony took three quarters of an hour to complete, and after a thorough bath, I outraged the mirror with my reflection once more. Better, I told myself, quite appreciating my innately eternal youthfulness. Maybe still not thirteen, but certainly a close sixteen.
Twitty, my sore-throated cuckoo on the wall, caviled painfully. It was six o'clock. Time was not sympathetic, either to Twitty or to me.
I proceeded to my bedroom, the one I shared with Ky, and searched desperately for my old shirt and shorts. I found them abandoned on the closet floor with my other unwearables, pulled them out and took a sniff of them. The smell almost knocked me out. I reached for Ky's nearly empty vial of 'Eternity' and sprinkled it sparingly over the clothes. I then went to the ironing board and gave the wrinkles a good smoothing over. Afterward, I put on the clothes and lastly completed the pubescent look with white socks and trainers.
It was now an hour to eight o'clock.
I took a deep breath, relaxed on my couch and waited in front of a rerun of 'The Brady Bunch'.
I had dozed off. It must have been from all the running around and the anxiety of doing this for the very first time. The door bell suddenly rang, startling me. I jumped up from the couch. I reached the front door and peeped through the spy hole at my guest. My heart sank. Jim was gorgeous. I hadn't wanted Jim to be gorgeous. Six feet tall, 175 pounds, he had a mop of curly brown hair and a beautifully shapely mouth. But his eyes were something else altogether; they were the most compelling of blue eyes, set in contrasting dark long eyelashes and they were peering back at me as if they were also studying me the way mine were studying him.
"Are you going to open the door or do I have to wait out in the corridor all night for you?" my guest asked.
Recovering my manners, I opened the door and let my guest in. Jim didn't look fifty-something at all.
"You seem disappointed," he noted.
"You don't look like my father," I replied in an unusually crass manner.
(Perhaps I had wanted to provoke an early punishment from Jim.)
But Jim had grunted and assured me that I would feel differently soon enough. Looking me over for clues to my personality, he ordered me to turn a few times. I silently counted four pirouettes. Then he left me with my back towards him while he went to take a short tour of my apartment. I turned back to catch sight of his buttocks. These were tightly enclosed in a pair of well-worn, au courant black jeans.
"This place is a mess," Jim scolded when he returned to the living room.
The scolding took my breath away. Jim was pretty good at this. Although by appearance far removed from patriarchal, he could certainly assume a very convincing persona of a patriarch.
"Okay, son, what did I say would happen if you messed up the place again?" Jim said, the hard edge in his voice slowly ascending.
"Sir?" I muttered.
"You heard me, young man," Jim said.
"You'd punish me, sir," I stammered.
"How shall I punish you?" Jim asked now.
"You'd remove all my clothes, sir," I guessed nervously, making a split-second decision to say this over saying I was going to get spanked. That little voice possessing my cerebrum was teaching me to invent a drawn-out dialogue as an erotic preamble to my punishment scene. Besides, this way I could also discreetly inform Jim how I liked to be spanked. My teaser was working, too. Jim's crotch was visibly tenting up and so was mine.
"And what's going to happen after I've removed all your clothes?" Jim continued.
"After that, you'd spank me, sir," I whispered, suddenly feeling overcome by shyness.
"Speak up, son," Jim scolded, "I can't hear you."
"You'd spank me, sir," I repeated out loud.
"And how shall I spank you?" he asked next.
"Over your knees, sir," I answered.
"Good boy, at least you remember this. Now come over here and stand in front of me. You're going to take off all your clothes in front of me," Jim commanded while he sat down on the couch.
I stood in front of this stranger that was playing the role of a father to a T, feeling all at once nervous and excited at the thought of being stripped naked and spanked in a moment. I was only a short distance from Jim so that he reached my waist easily with his long arms. Grasping the top of my shorts, he pulled me closer to him. His fingers worked to unbutton my shorts and then he removed them completely from my hips. He ordered me next to lift up the tails of my shirt. I did as told and he gripped the elastic top of my underwear. He made short work of rolling my briefs down to my ankles. I was then told to kick off my shoes and step out of my shorts and briefs. Once more I obeyed him meekly.
Jim suddenly spun me around and bent me over from my waist. I felt his fingers part my buttock cheeks. I felt them next feeling my anus and genitals. Swinging me back around, Jim then inspected my recently-shaved crotch. He seemed chagrined about something.
"What's this?" he asked. He pointed at the three fine strands of pubic hair I had missed. "I thought I had made it very clear I wanted you shaved completely smooth? Come with me."
Jim grasped me by my testicles and led me in the way of my own bathroom. I was ordered to sit on the tub and spread my thighs. I felt the cool of the steel razor against my skin and then in one swift move, Jim had removed the three stray hairs. I saw next his hand on my crotch, feeling me over to test for smoothness. Finally he nodded his head approvingly.
"Okay, son," he said, "there's going to be additional punishment for being a sloth, on top of the one you're getting for being a sloven. Come along."
Jim led me back to the living room by my genitals once more. Standing me in front of him as he had done earlier, while he arranged himself on my couch, he asked me what I thought would be the most appropriate implement he ought to use for my punishment. I immediately suggested his hand and he nodded. But then he added that he was going to use a coat hanger also for the last phase of my spanking. I winced noticeably.
"Go now and fetch me a wire hanger," Jim ordered me.
Now, I knew some things about how this game was played. I had read about it. I also had friends who had played the game before. Even slaves had rights, so I returned to Jim with Ky's slipper in place of the wire hanger. Jim studied it, then shifted his gaze to me and nodded in a similarly-tacit agreement of my choice. There had been no need for words. It was universally understood by both tops and bottoms that we played by the law of mutual consent and general consensus.
"Now, boy," Jim ordered, "over my lap quickly."
I heaved my body over Jim's lap, and as soon as I was in the position for my spanking, my shirt tail flipped upward to my shoulders and my exposed nude bottom readjusted to present itself clearly for the path of Jim's hand, I felt his first smack against both my cheeks.
SMACK! (Uhh.)
SMACK! (Unnhh!)
SMACK! (Owww!)
SMACK! (Aahhhh!)
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
After about five minutes of this, Jim lifted me up.
"Now, my boy," he ordered, "remove your shirt and hand it to me. But don't you dare touch your ass."
My bottom ached terribly and I longed to rub out the flames from it. But I didn't want to test how far Jim would allow himself to be charitable about my demands. He was, after all, my top. So I reached instead for the buttons of my shirt and undid them. I peeled away the shirt, handing it to Jim with hands that shook. He folded my shirt and placed it on the couch beside him. While I stood now completely naked, Jim lectured me about my tardiness. Only when he was satisfied that my promise to improve my behavior and attitude was trustworthy, did he ask for the slipper. I bent to pick it up and gave it to him. Over his knees I next went once more.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Jim was making full use of the slipper to torture my bottom and steer my spanking to a climactic end.
I reached under myself and started to spank my penis. When I was close, I spanked myself more earnestly. Suddenly I let fly a shrill and uncontainable scream, and then spurted a stream of cum onto the carpet. Jim had prudently spread apart his thighs to avoid getting his jeans soiled.
And that was it - all over in half an hour. I was in pain and tears, but as had been prearranged, there were no hugs, no embraces, no soothing words. No corner time while I contemplated the present or future, nor father nor older brother to put me to bed and watch over me till I slept. There was certainly no love.
There hadn't been a context for my spanking even. It had all been passionless and antiseptic, an impersonal business deal for a vague personal purpose about which I was now confused whether it had been achieved. Indeed, that was all it was - a business deal. I had been crazy to let myself get into such a situation. And now all I was left with was a bigger void in my soul to complicate my already inchoate being.
Nevertheless, Jim had fulfilled his end of the deal, and very well and professionally, too, so I thanked him and paid him his fees. We shook hands and I saw him to the door.
I could have asked for more, I knew. It wasn't as if Jim had set any restrictions. It was I. I was the rigid one, too constricted by my Asian roots to ask for more. I didn't realize I was weeping till a tear rolled onto my big toe.
Bye-bye, Papa, I whispered, watching from my window till my make-believe daddy disappeared around the street corner.
It was late when I put myself to bed. When I could, I finally cried uncontrollable tears, but I was not familiar with these tears.
"Did you find your answer?" Bob asked me. I was back on my therapist's couch a week later.
"You mean what it is that makes me happy?" I said.
Bob nodded.
"I thought it was a good spank, but I guess I just want to be loved," I said.
"It's what everyone's looking for," Bob said.
"Right," I replied resentfully, realizing I didn't need a therapist to figure this one out. Nevertheless, I stayed on to play Bob's head games for an hour. When I left, I decided to take a walk to allow my head to clear.
Love, I thought with mock disdain, while I divagated aimlessly, it was that all along and that common. But as common as my malady was, it had been occasioned by an external stimulant, my father. Father's love was really just that which I had always wanted, coveted till the very end. It had nothing yet everything to do with being spanked. It had nothing yet everything to do with being naked. Love was what I lost when I left home.
I had already wandered into Times Square but was barely aware of it. I was also barely aware that the sky had blackened above me. But while staring absent-mindedly at the poster of Antonio Sabato Jr. in his cK underwear, I figured out something else.
I grew up to equate Kirin's and Mishka's spanking me with Father's love. That was a mistake. And when I left home, I repeated the mistake when I thought I could find love again from being spanked by Ky and by David and now, of all people, by Jim, beautiful stranger as he was. But love from any one of these individuals was simply a will-o'-the-wisp. These men were simply a steadily expanding line of wrong choices I was making that began nine years ago with Kirin. I had wanted them to duplicate Father's love, but none had been able to love me in the same way. In the end, as it had been from the very start, there was really only Father's love.
And in truth, it was really I who was the rigid one, emotionally and socially, unable to let go.
When I finally arrived at my apartment, I headed straight for the bedroom. I stripped naked and picked up the cane. I lay on my bed, threw my legs in the air and spread apart my thighs. I started to impose the cane against my bottom. I didn't spare the rod, but laid it on myself very harshly.
Now, that was good housekeeping.
THE END
(NEXT: 'Will-o'-the-wisp'.)