This is a story of an incident that took place between Bob, who is a good friend of mine and his dad. He lived in the house next door to mine while I was growing up.
Bob and I were really good friends who did a lot together. We were also pretty decent kids even if I do say so myself. Seldom did we get in any serious trouble but if we did we both knew hard times would be waiting for us at home.
On this particular day, Bob had been out in the morning with one of his other friends batting stones off of a stick. He had very strong arms and shoulders and could send a stone really far. I had done it with him several times, but had done it in a field previously. This particular time he did it in a street. It wasn't long before a stone hit a car windshield and caused it to crack in all directions. Instead of owning up to it by going to the owners house, Bob and his friend took off as fast as their feet could carry them. He came home, ate lunch, changed in to a swimsuit and went swimming in the afternoon. What they didn't know is that the next door neighbor of the car owner had seen the incident from the side yard and knew Bob's parents
Later in the evening Bob's dad got a disturbing call. His dad was quite an understanding parent and probably would have invoked little in the way of punishment if Bob had owned up to The incident and made arrangements to pay for the damage or at least told his dad about it. Instead, he had run away, not telling the owner and not telling his dad when he got home. His dad was really frosted to have to hear it from a neighbor down the street.
While I was home alone that evening, I could begin to hear Bob's dad chewing him out. Since it was summer, both houses had their windows open and I could hear the discussion (if you want to call it that) quite clearly. I watched from our darkened kitchen into their living room. I could see the fear on Bob's face and most of the other action. When he was sent to his room, I hurried to my room across from his bedroom window and watched the rest of the action from my darkened room. The rest of the story is from what I saw from my bedroom and what Bob told me several days later about the confrontation with his dad.
Bob and his dad had quite the heated discussion. After some time he watched his dad walk toward the hall closet where the stick was kept. Bob was acquiring an almost numb feeling; a feeling of helplessness as his dad reached for and grabbed the stick in the closet. Yes, he could run away from his dad right now, but that would only make matters worse and his dad would eventually get to him. The seventeen-year-old starred at the 1 1/2 wide by 15-inch long stick as it was removed from its resting-place on the closet shelf. It was only 1/2 inch thick and was not overly big as implements go.
Bob's mind went back to several years ago when he first tangled with the stick. He had been wearing his favorite Levi blue jeans. They were well broken in and fit like a soft glove. Not tight fitting, but they fit closely as they framed the contours of his youthful features in a most effective way. Besides the jeans making him feel somewhat protected, he had also been pleased by the fact that he was wearing a pair of Hanes boxer briefs. They fit lightly snug but not tight and their extended legs gave him the feeling of more protection around his upper legs and bottom. He had figured that the stick would definitely sting and hurt and might even make him whimper, but that it would not be an experience where he would feel broken thereafter.
Bob could not help remembering how wrong he had been about the stick's effectiveness on that occasion. The stick may have been relatively thin, but it was made of heavy solid oak. When that stick with it's rounded edges landed on the seat of his jeans and sank into the flesh of his bottom, it had produced a sting that he could not have previously imagined. The stick had been especially effective when the end of it landed low and inside between the jean pocket and the rear seam. The soft jean material and cotton boxer brief layer had not seemed effective at all in staving off the penetrating sting of the stick on the most tender part of his ass.
Bob's mind now brought him back to his present precarious situation. Yes, he was now a couple of years older, but he was wearing even less formable clothing than he was during his first tangle with that piece of wood. He could begin to feel sweat beads form on his brow as he thought about the thin surfing trunks he was presently wearing. He also knew that the old and sort of small fitting cotton/polyester boxers underneath were not going to help much either. He had purposely worn them because most of the cotton had been worn out of them leaving just the thin polyester fabric. This allowed him to become dry much faster than if he had heavy cotton boxers on. The fact that they were small kept his privates controlled better when swimming.
Bob's dad turned around, shook the stick and ordered his son to his bedroom. As Bob climbed the stairs to his bedroom, he could feel his boxers and surfing trunks form around his bottom. He could also feel beads of sweat dripping down from his underarms.
Bob walked into his bedroom and turned toward his father. At that point, his dad made a grab for his arm, but instinctively Bob put up his other arm as a defense. He also tried to grab the stick from his father. He realized later, that was not the smart thing to do. Fear had just overcome him at that point and he was to pay dearly for his actions.
His dad who had been a top college wrestler put his left leg behind his son's legs and pushed his son back onto the floor. He then grabbed bob's right ankle and lifted it into the air. The next thing Bob knew was that the stick was being applied six times to the center of his right ass cheek as he lay on his back on the floor. About one shot every two seconds. The very agile stick was generating a horrendous sting as it bit through the pocketless cheek of his thin surfing pants and boxer shorts. Screams and tears poured respectively from Bob's mouth and eyes.
Bob's father didn't let go after the flurry of shots. Instead he yelled out explaining that the last shots were for breaking the window and not telling him. He went on to explain that the next barrage would be for fighting back. Bob was almost as muscled as his dad, but he had learned now that he was no match to his father's wrestler's prowess
The agile stick was put to work again. This time landing lower on the ass cheek and close to the center seam of the surfing pants. This meant that the stick was working on the tender most part of a guy's ass. Right next to the ass hole. Near ten shots were swung. Neither Bob nor I counted, but to Bob it felt like a hundred.
Bob and I both learned plenty that night. He although had learned it the hard way. It had certainly been reinforced to both of us that it is very important to vigilantly communicate with ones parents. Last but not least to respect their authority.