"I'll make it up to you, Mark," Boyd told me as we walked from the woods to his house. "I've got that dime bag of weed hidden in the garage. I'll tell you what, I'll give that to you." He turned to face me. "Will that make us even then?"
I looked over at him and met his gaze. His cinnamon eyes had a pleading, guilty look. I felt like saying no just to continue to make him feel guilty, but the offer of a dime bag of weed--Jamaican at that--was just too tempting. "The whole bag? You sure?"
His eyes brightened somewhat, his frown lessening, at this chance of redemption. "Yeah, I swear." He raised his right hand in a mock gesture. "It's yours. I tell ya Mark, I never meant for you to get hurt by that man. I would have cancelled the bet if I thought it would cause you to get hurt."
I continued looking at him, reading his eyes. "I know that Boyd. Besides, the weed will definitely make me forget about it," I joked, winking at him. He smiled broadly and a gleam filled his eyes and I knew that the brainiac was back to normal.
"Come on, let's go get it," Boyd stated, starting to run.
We raced all the way to his home, collapsing on his front lawn. His mom's car was not in the driveway. "Where's your mom?" I asked gasping.
"Shopping. She said this morning that she and dad were going to the mall. Don't worry. The coast is clear. Come on, let's go in."
The house was a rambler with an attached one-car garage that you entered from the kitchen. It was the same as most of the other houses in the subdivision--three bedrooms, two baths, one car garage, slight differences made it somewhat distinct from the others. Boyd took his key and unlocked the front door and we entered.
"You want a Coke or anything?" he asked.
"Nah, thanks. Let's just get the stuff then head back to the woods and LIGHT up?" I winked at him, grinning.
"Oh, that was terrible. Give up on the puns...Please."
"Hey!"
We went through the living room to the kitchen to the door to the garage. Boyd flipped on the light switch and we saw the light come on in the garage through the beige curtains on the door.
"I hid it on the second shelf of Dad's workbench," Boyd said stepping into the garage, me following right behind. "With all the tools he has on that thing, I knew there was no way he would ever find it." Boyd knelt down and reached into the back of the lower workbench shelf. "Ah, here it is." He rose holding a plastic bag in his hand.
"What are you boys doing?" a voice came from the kitchen- garage door which we had left open.
We both spun around and faced the voice. It was Boyd's father standing in a white tee shirt and green army fatigue pants. He was 36 and toned, daily PT kept him in shape. Boyd was born when he was 20, back when he was an E-4; he was a master sergeant now.
"Dad...what are you doing here?" Boyd asked. "I..I thought you went shopping with mom."
"I felt like taking a nap instead, that was, until you boys woke me up when you came in." He eyes dropped to Boyd's hand. "What's that?"
Boyd unconsciously moved the hand behind him, giving himself away. "Nothing, Dad. Just some junk."
Mr. Sinclair stepped down into the garage. "Let me see that."
I could hear the blood running across my temples in the total silence that filled that garage.
"I said," Mr. Sinclair's voice was firm. "Let me see that."
Slowly, Boyd's shaking hand came from behind him. He extended the hand out in front of him towards his father and opened it, palm up. His father looked down at the small bag. He didn't move, just stood looking down at the contents in his son's hand. Slowly, his head turned up from his son's hand to his son's face.
"Dad, I'm..."
"HUSH!"
We stood there in total silence, both Boyd and I watching his father's face. It seemed as if I could actually see the anger build within him. His eyes never left his son's eyes; it was as if he were reading Boyd's soul itself, trying to determine if it was claimed by Satan or still salvageable.
I felt not only terrified but uncomfortable. "Um...I've...I gotta go..."
Mr. Sinclair moved his head to face me. "You are not going anywhere, Mark." He turned back to Boyd, who was now looking down at his feet. "And as for you young man, you know that this is totally unacceptable behavior. What on earth possessed you to be messing with this? What, is Mark getting you into this stuff?"
"No," Boyd said without looking up. He no longer held his hand out with the bag. Both arms hung limply at this sides.
There was a moment of silence. "This time you've done it, Boyd. I can't let this go unpunished. I can't write this off as boyish behavior. Maybe I've done that too much." He turned to me. "Mark, you're going to stand against that wall behind you and watch while Boyd receives his punishment. You're going to see what happens to Boyd when he messes with drugs and you're going to remember it every time you even think about doing drugs with him or in front of him. You hear that?"
I stood looking up at him, nodding, my mouth agape.
"I said, do you hear me?!"
"Yes sir," I replied, still nodding my head.
"Okay, over there then." He motioned with his head.
I backed away towards the wall that he motioned to, stopping only when I physically backed into the wall. I was relieved to be out of the close triangle that we had been in, but I was still tense.
He turned back towards Boyd. "Boyd, I want you to undress. Completely. Right here. You hear me?"
Boyd nodded, still looking down at his feet.
"I said, do you hear me?!"
"Yes sir," Boyd replied weakly, still looking down.
"Look at me young man when I'm talking to you! And I mean NOW!"
Boyd slowly raised his head and looked up into his father's face.
"What did I tell you to do?"
"Dad, please, I'm..."
"WHAT did I tell you to do!"
Boyd sighed in resignation. "Sir, you told me to undress completely."
"That's right! Now do it!"
Boyd extended his hand towards his father again. "Do you want this?" he asked sheepishly.
His father looked down at the bag, then took it. "Yes. I'll go flush it down the john and grab a belt while I'm at it." He looked back into Boyd's eyes. "You BETTER completely undress while I'm gone. And you BETTER not move from this spot." He glanced over at me. "Don't even think about leaving."
When his father entered the house, Boyd and I looked at each other. Boyd looked pitiful. I didn't know what to say to him. His brown eyes seemed to plead for me to help him in some way. I thought for a second about running for the door and making it out of the house. I thought perhaps if I wasn't there it would at least remove some of the humiliation for him, but I couldn't move.
We both heard the toilet flush and both our faces went slack - at the thought of loosing the weed and also at the thought of what was coming next. Boyd reached down to his tee shirt tail and pulled the tee shirt up over his head. He tossed it to the garage floor beside him. He slid off his sneakers without untying them and kicked them over to where the tee shirt lay. He undid his jean cutoffs and let them fall to his feet where he stepped out of them, then kicked them over to the tee shirt. He stood in just his white jockey shorts, which were in bright contrast to his golden tan body with its dark features.
He looked over at me and spoke. "My father has never spanked me without clothes before."
"He's really pissed. I wish we hadn't come here." I said.
"Believe me, so do I." He hesitantly lowered his jockey shorts, using his hands to pull them all the way pass his knees before letting them fall to his feet. He straightened and kicked them aside. Swimming at the lake all summer had paid off. He had a swimmer's physique, his upper body nicely defined, tapering down to a narrow waist which funnelled attention down to his pubic hair and penis.
His father stepped into the garage carrying a belt. I recognized it as soon as I saw it--a field belt. These were the belts that our father's wore when they were in the field. The "field" is what they called it when they had to camp out in the forests and do maneuvers. The belt was army green, about two and a half inches wide, made of thick twine sewn together, and had regularly spaced, black metal rivet holes which were used to attach things to the belt like canteens and the such.
When Boyd saw the belt, he stepped back towards the work bench. "Dad, please. You've never hit me with anything other than a normal belt before. Please, don't do this. I'm sorry. Don't let me use the car, take away my allowance, but please don't do this. I'm really sorry."
"I know you are. You're sorry you got caught. But I seriously doubt you're really sorry you've been smoking marijuana. You've probably been doing it for awhile." He cut a glance at me as if he thought he could tell from my face whether his guess was correct. I just stood against the wall cowering.
"Please don't do this, Dad. Please. I'm a not a kid. You can't do this to me."
"Shut up, young man. I haven't had to spank you in many years. But I'll be _d_a_m_n_ed if you don't remember this one. That's why I brought this belt. I don't care how big you are, young man, you'll feel this one. Now turn around and brace against that workbench."
"Mr. Sinclair, you can't hit him with that..." I interjected.
"You stand over there and shut up or else I'll give YOU some of this."
He turned back to Boyd. "You heard what I said, young man. Turn around, bend over and grab the top of that workbench. I want your legs spread. Believe me, when I finish with the 20 licks you're gonna receive, you'll think twice before you ever, and I mean ever, mess with illegal drugs again in your life. Do you hear me?"
Boyd stood there nodding, although his expression was one of total disbelief.
"I said, do you HEAR me?!"
There was a slight pause. "Yes sir," Boyd managed, his voice strained. "I'm sorry, sir."
He turned and faced the workbench. The workbench was waist high and was cluttered with several bird houses in different stages of development which was Mr. Sinclair's hobby. Boyd bent over and placed his hands on the edge of the workbench, spreading them so that he could stare between them down at the concrete floor. He then positioned his feet, first shifting one then the other as he spread them. He stopped moving and tightened his buttocks preparing for the belting.
I stood to the side leaning against the wall. With Boyd braced in the position as he was, I understood why he was popular with the girls. His tightened shoulder and arm muscles were clearly defined, and his tensed back vee-ed down to his firm meaty buttocks and thighs, which seemed sculptured. With his legs spread as they were, his scrotum and the head of his penis could clearly be seen from behind as well as the body hair that accented them.
"Mark, anytime I find the slightest evidence at all that Boyd has been messing with illegal drugs, this is what he's going to get. You remember that while you watch him get his ass beat, and you remember that if you ever see him messing with that stuff. Because as his friend, I expect you to step in and care enough about him to keep him away from that stuff. Not just because he'll get his ass beat, but because its dangerous. You haven't a clue what all that stuff can be laced with. Believe me, I've seen it all in 'Nam."
I interpreted it as a monologue, but I was conditioned now, "Yes sir."
He took one end of the belt and wrapped it around his right hand several times, holding it within his fist. He held the other end in his left hand.
"Son, I better never find you messing with drugs again." With that he swung the belt back then forward and struck Boyd right in the middle of his buttocks. A bright red lash etched across Boyd's posterior.
"Ahhhh", Boyd screamed thrusting his pelvis forward towards the work bench as far as possible without moving his feet out of position.
"Boyd, resume position," Mr. Sinclair ordered. He turned to me. "Mark, how many was that?"
"One sir."
"He has nineteen more to go. You count out each one and ensure that I stop at twenty."
He turned back to Boyd, who had stuck his posterior back out but not as far as at first. Again, Mr. Sinclair drew back on the belt then lashed forward and struck Boyd's posterior. A second red streak etched across Boyd's posterior, this one more at the base of his buttocks.
"Ahhh! Ahhhh!" This time he came completely out of position, leaning his full chest against the workbench while using his right hand to reach back and rub his buttocks. "Stop Dad! Stop! I..I can't.....Please!"
"Boyd, resume position!"
"Dad, please...."
"Resume POSITION!" Then to me. "Count!"
"Ah, two....two, sir."
Boyd had turned and was looking into his father's eyes. "Please, Dad, no more. I've learned my lesson. I won't do it ever again. I swear."
"Resume position! If I have to hold you down, you will get more than twenty. But twenty will be the minimum here today, have no doubt about that. Now, resume position, and I mean now!"
A look of total defeat overcame Boyd's face and he dropped his glance back to the garage floor as he turned around towards the workbench again. As he placed his hands back on the workbench, I noticed his arms were shaking slightly. That stopped once he tensed his body again.
Another lash.
"Three," I counted this time without prompting.
A lash.
"Four."
Boyd hissed in air when struck, but refused to verbalize any sound. He drew his pelvis in towards the workbench every time he was struck and then took about five seconds to reposition and tense. This cycle continued for each subsequent lash. Around the fifteenth lash, Boyd was taking longer to reposition, about ten seconds. Not only would he draw his pelvis inward but he would twist it somewhat as if that relieved some of the pain to his buttocks. Finally the last lash.
"Twenty!" I yelled.
Mr. Sinclair stood back from Boyd who was still braced against the workbench, his bright red posterior jutting outwards. "I mean what I say Boyd. I better never find you messing with drugs anymore." He glanced over at me, then walked into the house closing the door behind him.
I walked over to Boyd and touched his shoulder. He looked over at me and I could see that he was crying silently. He straightened up and took both hands and massaged his buttocks.
"I can feel that the welts have small bumps in them caused by the small rivet holes in the belt," he said. "Here, feel." He took my right hand and placed it on his posterior and moved it slowly across a welt.
"Yeah, I feel them. Are you okay?"
"Things could be better, but I'll live."
I started gently massaging his right buttock.
"Ah, that feels great," he stated as his body relaxed.