This is my first attempt at a story. Please let me know (bunzafire@yahoo. com)if anyone likes it, and if the response is high enough, I'll write more. The events are loosely based on real experiences when I was 12 years old.
Howie and I sat in the apple tree, laughing, talking too loud, and trying our hand at cursing. We'd both heard all the words before - from our friends mostly and at home a little, but we'd always been afraid to actually say the words, even when we were sure we were all alone. We both grew up in very strict households, and we knew precisely what would happen to us if either of our parents knew that we used such language. Howie's mother was gone to the store, however, and we were giving it a try. When you're twelve years old, the element of danger in performing a forbidden act is often more rewarding than the act itself, and we were caught up in the glory of the moment.
We started with whispers, saying the forbidden words with just enough volume to convince us that we'd done it. Howie threw himself into our new enterprise and mustered the required courage long before I did. When I said the "f" word the first time, I cringed and shrank away, even though my fear was such that I'd barely whispered loud enough for Howie to hear, and he was only three feet away on another limb.
"Geez, Bart" he said, this time in a normal tone of voice. "Mom is gone and your grandfather's house is way over there. No one can hear us! What are you scared of?"
He was right, of course, but logic had little to do with what I was feeling at that moment. I'd been thrashed often enough by my mom and dad that I instinctively knew when I was encroaching on dangerous ground. Something, some voice in the back of my mind was telling me "it's not worth it, you'll get caught stop stop stop" but I successfully silenced the voice and continued.
"You're a f***ing a**hole" was my timely response. I was proud of my effort.
Howie laughed aloud, slapped my on my shoulder, and said "Now that's more like it! See it's easy..." Then, to my horror, he started shouting the "f" word quite loudly, over and over. "F*** F*** F*** F***!" I felt the icy ball in my stomach that I often felt while committing forbidden deeds or just after being caught and I stared at him, eyes wide with fascination. Then I got into the act, and we continued for the next few minutes.
The October afternoon was brisk, and I had just thought about asking if we could go in for a while when Howie launched into a blistering selection of foul language. He mixed the words up and it made no sense - like the goal was to use as many "bad" words as possible in one sentence in the shortest amount of time. By the time he finished I was laughing hysterically, holding on to my limb to keep from falling.
The back door on the house slammed open and we both jerked our heads around in panic. Howie's mother was leaning out the door staring us down. My heart was pounding in my chest. Maybe she's mad we didn't clean up Howie's room before we came outside...maybe she didn't hear us...? She didn't keep us waiting for long.
"Bart," she started coldly, "go home right now. I'll be calling your mother this evening to let her know what I just heard. Howie, you can get your butt in the house NOW."
"But mom," he whined, and I could hear the fear in his voice. "We didn't do anything. We were just playing in the tree."
"Oh? And what did I just hear you say?" There was a dead silence. I was afraid to say anything, and this seemed to be between Howie and his mom, at least for the moment. For that, at least, I was momentarily grateful. After a minute's silence, she again asked, this time more loudly. "Young man, I asked you what did you just say?"
"Nothing" said Howie, and the word was almost a whisper again.
"It wasn't 'nothing' and if you don't tell me right now what you said, I'll whip you in front of your friend until you tell me. Three.........two....."
"Alright....ok...I said a bad word." Howie admitted. He was panicking and continued hurriedly. "But I only said one word, and it wasn't that bad."
"Howie, I've been standing here for the last five minutes. I've heard a lot more than one word, and what I heard was very bad." At that my heart sank, for I now knew without a doubt that she'd heard me as well. I'd been sitting there during their exchange quietly hoping to myself that she really had heard only Howie's final outburst, but the cat was apparently out of the bag. She'd heard me, and she was going to tell my mother. But she wasn't finished. "So not only do you say words that you know are forbidden, but you lie about it as well. Get in this house this instant." She turned her gaze at me. "Bart, go home, unless you want to come in and get what Howie's going to get."
Since I was closest to the bottom, I climbed down first. Without a word, I headed toward the side of the house. Howie was down now, and was walking very slowly toward the house. I stole a glance, and saw for the first time that his mother was holding a long brown leather strap in her hand. It looked like the strap that hung in the barber's shop - about two feet long, maybe a half inch thick. Howie was looking down at his feet as he walked and didn't notice this detail until he was nearly at the door.
He stopped, staring. "Mom...no" he cried, and the panic and fear were clear in his voice now.
She reached out and grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up the step and into the house. He was struggling a bit and starting to bluster, but he was small for his age and no match for her strength. The door slammed shut and they were gone. During their brief struggle, I had reached the side of the house and had stopped to watch, forgotten entirely by the two. As they entered the house, I turned and started to walk past the living room window. I knew from having been in the house that the back door opened into a small porch which led into the living room, and as I walked by the window, I heard the unmistakable sound of the strap cracking on Howie's jeans. He yelped perhaps in suprise as much as in pain, and the sound stopped me in my tracks, my head just below the level of the opened window. I could plainly hear the conversation from inside the room.
"Howie, I've told you over and over not to use such language, and you know better that to lie to me. You know the consequences and I'm not going to disappoint you. You're going to get a whipping that you'll remember for a very long time."
"But mom" he started and the whining was in earnest now. "I promise we won't do it again...I promise" He never finished the sentence as he was interrupted by another crack of the strap. He yelped again, and started to cry.
"Howie, stop blubbering. You're going to get the whipping you deserve and there's no way out. Now bend over the couch." I felt a thrill of excitement when I heard those words. I'd never actually heard or seen another person spanked before, but I'd thought about it often, and it was something that gave me pleasure. The window above my head was tempting, and I crept over closer to see if I could hear better. I was crouched down as I crawled over and by standing slightly I could just see through the dark gray screen into the room beyond.
The couch was nestled against the wall to my right, and Howie was on his knees in front of it, bent over with his face sideways on the seat. His hands were clasped together, held in front of his body against the couch. His head was turned away from me, and his mother was standing on the other side, holding the strap down toward the floor. If she looked toward the window she would see me, but her full attention was given to the task at hand.
My heart was pounding in my chest, beating faster and harder than I ever remembered before. I thought the sound of it alone would give me away. But the people inside the house had other things on their minds, and I was not seen. I knew this was yet another "bad" thing that I should not do, but the prospect of witnessing Howie's whipping was far too powerful.
She raised the strap in a practiced, familiar way, in a short arc that brought it just to shoulder height, then stepped into the blow and brought it down across Howie's jeans. The "CRACK" of the strap surprised me and I nearly gave myself away. Howie gave a small grunt, but was otherwise silent. She waited about five seconds, then repeated the blow "CRACK" ... "CRACK" ... With each stroke, Howie's body would jump and he would utter a strangled grunt or cry. As the blows continued, the pitch of his voice would raise. CRACK ... CRACK ... CRACK ... On the sixth blow, Howie could hold back no more and he began to sob. CRACK ... CRACK ... CRACK ... CRACK ... As the blows continued, his reactions became more frenzied CRACK ... CRACK ... CRACK ... until finally his hands came apart and he tried to cover his butt with his hands.
"Howie" she said softly. "You know that's not allowed and that it only makes things worse." He was crying and sobbing continuously now, and his hands shook as he reclasped them in front of himself.
The assault continued. CRACK ... CRACK ... CRACK ... Now Howie began to try to talk to his mother between cries of pain and the blows of the strap. CRACK ... "Ahhhhh. Please mom, I swear we won't say those words" ... CRACK ... "Ahhhh again. Please, it hurts so bad I can't stand it please" ... CRACK ... "Ahhhh oh please please stop mom please" ... CRACK(20) ... "Ahhhhh oh it hurts please stop" ... CRACK ... "Ahhhhhh please mom" ... Suddenly she increased the pace, raining down blows one per second in a frenzy WHACK . WHACK . WHACK . WHACK . WHACK . WHACK . Howie was screaming continuously and incoherently by this time WHACK . WHACK . WHACK . WHACK . WHACK . WHACK.
Suddenly she stopped. Howie was still crying and his whole body was shaking and moving back and forth against the couch. She tossed the strap lightly onto the couch beside him and stood looking down at him for about 30 seconds, waiting for him to regain some measure of composure. I slid down as far as possible while still being able to see in, suddenly afraid that she'd look toward the window and discover my unwelcome presence.
"Well" she said. "Do you think that's enough? Do you think that was enough that you'll remember it the next time you want to say those words?" Howie was struggling to control his sobbing. He picked his head up off the couch and looked at her, placing his hands on the couch for balance.
"Oh, yes" was all he could muster.
"You're sure? Don't want to say those words anymore?"
"Yes, mom. I'll never say those words again."
"Allright, and I agree. I think that whipping was severe enought that you'll remember it the next time you want to say words that you know you aren't allowed to say. Now stand up, and put your hands behind your head." Howie stood up with some effort, clasped his hands together, and put them behind his head. He looked uncertain, hoping beyond hope that the ordeal was over, but unsure of this last development. His legs were shaking a bit, but he stood tall and looked fearfully at his mom.
"I'm going outside for a moment" she began, "and I want you to remain in this position the entire time that I'm gone. Do not move your hands to rub your butt - and believe me, young man, I'll know." And with that, she strode quickly toward the back door. As the significance of that dawned on me, I hurled myself against the side of the house, flattening against it trying to make myself as small as possible. I could hear her purposeful stride as she crossed the back yard, closer and closer.
Thinking that she had spotted me while whipping Howie, I nearly bolted, but fear kept me there and it's a good thing. By the sounds that I heard, she had stopped just before coming around the corner of the house. I wondered what she could be doing...the only things that were there were the young willow tree and the small shed where they kept the yard tools. She paused as if in thought, then I heard a quick snapping sound and she was walking back toward the house.
I turned around and looked back through the window in time to see Howie rubbing his butt with both hands. He heard the sound of his mother coming back in and quickly drew both hands back up behind his head. The door to the porch opened and she came out. Howie and I spotted what she had at the same instant. She was carrying a willow switch, about three feet long and very green. It was so flexible that it was nearly dragging the floor in front of her.
"What's that for?" Howie asked, his voice pitched high with fear.
"Howie, we both agreed that you had received a whipping severe enough that you would remember it the next time you wanted to say those forbidden words. But I'm going to whip you now for lying to me. That's something that you know you DON'T do, and I'm going to give you something to remind you of that."
I couldn't believe this - I had been lucky enought to see Howie beaten with the strap and now the punishment was going to continue.
"Mom it hurts too much...I can't take it..please..."
"Son, it hurts by design. That's part of the point of a good whipping - it's supposed to hurt. Now let's get this over with." She paused, probably for effect. "Now pull down your pants."
My heart seemed to skip a beat, and my pulse began to race. This was absolutely incredible and I couldn't believe my luck! In the back of my mind a little birdie was trying to remind me that a similar fate or worse waited for me at home, but I wasn't listening. I was enjoying the moment. I had received bare spankings before and I had fantasized about what it would be like to see it happen to someone else, but never in a million years did I think I would realize those fantasies. I had never been whipped with a switch before, but Howie had told me about several previous experiences. But none of them had been bare...in fact, Howie had never mentioned being spanked on his naked butt before.
"What?" Howie's confusion seemed genuine. He stared at his mother without moving.
"I said pull down your pants. Your underwear, too. I want your butt naked for this whipping."
Howie had started to cry again as he reached for his belt buckle. He slowly reached for the clasp, then unbuckled it and lowered his pants and underwear in one smooth motion. When he let go uncertainly, his pants and underwear fell in a loose heap at his ankles. He was facing away from me, so I got a good look at his naked cheeks as he lowered his jeans. Though summer was just a memory, his body still showed some tanning from our days in the sun last summer, the pale white of his midsection contrasting sharply with his back and legs. The most astonishing sight, however, was the angry red color on his cheeks. His mother had done an admirable job spreading the strap across the cheeks.
It was almost unimaginable to consider the pain that that switch would inflict on those already red cheeks in the whipping to come. I could tell by his reactions that these same thoughts were occuring to Howie.
Apparently impatient to be finished, Howie's mother abruptly barked "Now get back over there and bend over the couch."
Since his clothes were piled around his ankles, Howie had to baby-step across the room and fall to his knees in front of the couch. He leaned forward until his face was on the cushion again, still facing away from me. I had an absolutely unobstructed view, and my blood was racing in anticipation. Howie's mother walked across the room to stand just behind him, swishing the switch back and forth as if testing it. Howie was crying now and begging his mother to not do this. She ignored him and laid the switch across his butt. Leaving it there for a few seconds, she drew it back in a vicious swing, taking it so far back that it nearly wrapped around her. She reversed it and brought it forward against his unprotected skin in a vicious "WHICK".
The sound of the switch's impact was explosive, and there was a merciful moment of silence. Then Howie screamed in agony, and leaped to his feet. Although he was hindered somewhat by the clothes at his feet, he jumped about the room, screaming all the while and rubbing his butt with his hands. He was shrieking hysterically, and his mom just watched for a few seconds. As Howie's frenzy somewhat abated, she gestured with the switch toward the couch and said, "Get your butt back over that couch."
Howie protested and cried, but it was to no avail. As he walked back over to the couch, he stepped out of his pants and underwear and was thus naked from the waist down. Soon he was on his knees again, bent over the couch. From my vantage point, I could see his buttocks clearly. Despite the redness from his strapping, there was a vivid weal diagonally across both buttocks where the first stroke of the switch had landed.
"Put your hands under the cushion" continued his mother, "and don't come up off that couch again." Howie clasped his hands and hid them under the couch cushions.
With that, she swung the switch viciously again, and the "WHICK" as it struck shattered the air. She settled into a rhythym of one stroke every three seconds. WHICK...WHICK...WHICK...with every stroke, Howie screamed in pain and disbelief, and a new weal appeared on those beautiful buttocks. WHICK...WHICK...WHICK...soon the stripes of the switch began to merge together into an intricate network of blazing red...WHICK...WHICK...WHICK...and suddenly Howie was on his feet again, running in place, both hands on his buttocks.
Without a word, Howie's mother grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the couch. She sat down, folded him firmly across her lap, put her left hand on the back of his neck to hold him in place and continued the beating. She increased her pace a bit for this round, WHICK..WHICK..WHICK..but the switch was too long and awkward for this close-in work. She stopped for a second to break off an end of the switch, leaving herself with a 24-inch weapon. As she started again, I saw that the result of this action was to allow her to vastly increase the pace. The blows were raining down now, three per second, and Howie was beyond screaming. His voice had given out, and he was reduced to incoherent noises. Finally, after about 50 additional strokes, she threw the switch to the floor, picked him up carefully and hugged him to her chest.
From that vantage, I could see the damage she had inflicted. It was unbelievable to see the dark red color of his cheeks. Almost as unbelievable was the skill with which she had placed her blows - there were no marks at all on his back or legs. He was shaking uncontrollably and still sobbing.
I could tell that the "fun" was over, and the danger of discovery began to outweigh the excitement of staying. As I turned away from the window, I heard her say softly to her son "I love you, son. Don't ever make me do this to you again. And you can be sure that I'll make sure that Bart gets his, too."
An icy ball formed in my gut as I started toward home.