Last August I received a letter from one of my college friends, Peter Hunt, telling me that his 26-year-old nephew, Bob, who had just gotten out of the navy, was entering college in the area where I live. "Apartments and rooms in private houses are at a premium," he wrote. "If he can help it, he doesn't want to live in a dorm and share a room with an eighteen-year-old. Would you be willing to rent him a room? I think you two will get along very well."
I wrote back to Peter and told him I'd make a decision after meeting and talking with Bob. Two days later Bob rang my doorbell. He was uncommonly handsome. His was a baseball player's build—smoothly muscular, not bulky like a football player's or lanky like a basketball player's. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and his butt nicely rounded. He had short, sand-colored hair, bleached blond by the sun, and beautiful brown eyes. He spoke with a slight southern drawl, noticeable but not objectionable. He was, moreover, extremely deferential.
"I can't live with noise," I told him, "and I can't live with a mess."
"I'm very neat, sir, and I won't even bother setting up my stereo. That way I won't be able to make any noise."
"I can't contend with your coming in at all hours," I said. "I'm a light sleeper."
"Just tell me what time I have to be in, sir," he replied.
"I really never planned on running a rooming house," I said. "I'm only doing this as a favor to Peter. I hope you're not going to give me any trouble."
"Sir, if I give you the least bit of trouble, you can take it out on my hide," he countered.
He moved in the following day. He was neat, and he was quiet. He was also nice to look at and pleasant to have around.
Everything went well until I went on a short business trip. I came back earlier than expected and walked into an unholy mess. I found dozens of empty beer cans and four open vodka bottles as well as evidence of two kinds of smoking. Bob was sound asleep, and I decided to wait until the morning to confront him.
I am not an early riser; but Bob was still asleep when I woke up at nine. I began planning what I would say to him. Words like "sneaky," "underhanded," "betrayal of trust," "adolescent" and "tacky" came to mind. I was enjoying my speechwriting. Recalling what he had said about taking out his transgressions on his hide, I went up to the attic, got out a cane, and laid it on the hall table outside his room. I wanted to see how he would react.
While I was having breakfast, he came downstairs, wearing only a T-shirt and jockey shorts, and carrying the cane. "Sir, if this has to be done, I'd like to get it over with as soon as possible," he said.
Trying to affect nonchalance, I said, "O. K. I'll meet you in your room as soon as I finish my breakfast."
"Yes, sir," he answered, and made his way upstairs.
I decided to see how far he would let this go. When I had finished my second cup of coffee and had put the dishes into the dishwasher, I went upstairs.
Picking up the cane, he said, "Is this what they call 'the rod', sir?" he asked.
"It's a cane. Some people refer to it as a 'rod'," I answered.
"One of my friends, whose father was a Baptist minister, used to get the rod. He said there was something in the Bible about it. He used to get it on the bare butt."
"That's the only right way," I said. "Otherwise, it doesn't hurt enough."
"I got paddled a lot in high school, put I never got 'the rod,' and I never got whacked on the bare behind"
"Well," I said, "you're in for a new experience. You certainly deserve to get the rod on your bare behind."
"Yes, sir," he answered.
"Let's get this done," I said. "Drop your shorts and assume the position."
He knew well enough what "the position" was. He stepped out of his jockey shorts, spread his legs to the width of his shoulders, bent over, and grasped his ankles. His ass was absolutely hairless and milk white. It contrasted nicely with his suntanned back and thighs. "The position" reveals everything, depriving the recipient of the punishment of any vestige of modesty as well as positioning his backside for optimum impact. I had an unobstructed view of his balls and his asshole. I cannot deny that I savored it.
"This brings back memories of high school," he said.
"Good. Since you decided to act like a high school kid, you deserve to be treated like one," I retorted,
"Yes, sir," he answered very meekly.
I snapped the cane across his rear end. Initially he did not flinch, but a moment later when he experienced the delayed surge of pain that the cane always inflicts, he yelled, "Ow."
He took the next two strokes stoically. After the fourth, he fairly bellowed, "Ahhhhhh," but he did not move.
I stepped forward to have a look at my handiwork. Four crimson stripes, evenly spaced, decorated his upturned behind.
With a light, flicking motion I effortlessly delivered two real "stingers," each of which caused him to sing out. He nonetheless stayed in position.
"Since this is your first taste of the cane," I said, "I'm going to let you off with six. If I have to use it again, you'll get a dozen."
"Thank you, sir," he said, still remaining in position.
"You can get up now," I said.
He jumped up and furiously massaged his smarting backside. "That really hurt," he said. "Way worse than the paddle at school."
I put my arm around his shoulder and said, "You need to grow up, Bob."
"Yes, sir," he said, "but I have a feeling it's going to take me a few more years, and I need you to make sure I grow up right." With that he kissed me.