Brad's Diary
An invitation from the parish pastor to re-establish communication with the flock was hardly the opportunity to be reacquainted with church friends.
"I'm sorry, Reverend Ashley," I said, feeling a modicum of shame. "But I'll come for services as soon as we return from our retreat .... Yes, of course, I'll bring Jeff, too .... Where's the retreat? Oh, it's in Long Island, sir .... Yes, yes, I'll tell him you asked about him .... He's doing as well as he can, under the circumstances .... God bless you, too, sir."
And that ended my conversation with the reverend. But a call from the clergy could always give me firsthand knowledge of the sin of apostasy.
It was true that I hadn't been in Christian communion and fellowship since Jeff went missing. The reasons were as varied as complex. Not least of the complexities was Jeff's battle with amnesia and he was now at a crisis point in his struggle. I wanted to eliminate from his series of heartaches the apperception that he had no knowledge of our friends in the diocese and even more important, his own relationship with God.
Indeed, Jeff's struggle to regain all his memory seemed to have reached a deadlock. For almost a month, it had seemed that he might never really be able to recover every bit of his past. It was betokened of his depression, but this had been Tristan's conjecture.
It was troubling for everyone, not least for Tristan and Matt. The depression raised a new theoretical problem with them. Even in sleep and illness, one's memory putatively never rests. This theory, however, didn't concur with the fact that Jeff's depression was slowing down his recovery process.
Tristan had theorized that his depression was rooted in feelings of insecurity concerning our relationship. His rediscovery of the symbolism of a spanking and its equation with love had made him appetitive, both cognitively and cardinally, for more. But I hadn't given him any more since that last time I'd handed him one.
Working on Tristan's theories, I entreated to take upon myself the matter of putting to rest Jeff's insecurity. It was time to take that vacation we'd needed for too long, hence the retreat to our Long Island family lodge. On a Friday, I packed some belongings into four bags and stuffed them into the boot of my Navigator jeep. I bundled Jeff into the front passenger seat and embarked us on the start of our month-long vacation.
About a week into the vacation I found him at a declining ebb, propped up on a hammock. He was looking out into the mountains and lakes, a florid panorama that promised variety and perspective to the most finicky landscape artist.
His face betrayed mild anger, seemingly at the voiceless objects and silences that had been answering his private thoughts. His mind was an annoying grotto of deep yearnings and intentions and it was precisely to change this that we were on a vacation. He was supposed to be relaxing. I approached him.
"I've made so much progress," he said, "but the single most important thing I want to remember is eluding me the most. Why can't I remember how we met and fell in love, Brad?"
His crusade to recall this particular event had been relentless from the beginning and I worried that it would drive him mad. I kissed him and told him to come into the house.
"It's cold out," I said.
Of course I wasn't going to allow him to pursue the subject. We were dispatched on another more important errand. I had wanted to exploit this time to influence his knowledge of my love for him and pass the best of myself along. I wanted to be his master again. I wanted to re-train him, to demonstrate how in our relationship, in which _s_e_x_, nudity, spanking and fetish games featured prominently, we never stood on ceremony with each other.
I sought him in his room after his brief nap. He was reading an old book he'd found, its bindings splitting from the spine.
"Get up, Jeff," I ordered.
"Brad?"
"It's 'sir'," I told him.
"Sir," he stammered, rising to his feet, a scowl of astonishment crossing his boyish face. "Why ....?"
"Do not speak when you're being punished and before you're permitted," I said. "Is this clear?"
(Mum.)
"Is this clear, Jeff?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir," he stammered.
"That's better," I told him.
I commanded him to approach me where I was standing near the bed.
"Take your pants off," I ordered.
Unusually ruled by a deep sense of modesty, he had merely stood still, as if making me his mirror of how he ought to perform.
I expanded upon my command. "Just do it, Jeff. Untie the cord in your waistband and loosen the top of your pants. After that lower them to your ankles. And don't make me repeat this another time," I told him.
He registered my words and obeyed them, doing exactly as I'd described to him. He was like a schoolboy, learning from me. His pants loosened, he let them fall onto the floor. I told him to pick them up. He did, and afterward, I supervised its folding on the bed.
"Now take off your underwear," I said.
There was no need for me to repeat this command. He peeled his white briefs past his groin and hip and then down to his ankles. I told him to step out and discard the briefs on top of his pants. He obeyed. My boy was learning quickly.
I extended my arms to his T-shirt, picked up the two ends of the hem and lifted up the shirt to his nipples. I tied the ends of the hem into a knot. The shirt stayed up exposing his midriff, navel and tits. I smiled. He was gorgeous despite the distending stomach from a hearty midday meal.
I told him to return to his book.
"Sir?" he said.
"I didn't say you may speak, did I?" I chided.
"No, sir," he answered.
"No, is right," I replied. "Now, stay in your room till I come back for you. You're getting a spanking this evening."
I left with his clothes. I was assigning him a few hours of naked detention. It was part of my designs to let him marinate in his appentency and stew in his emotions. The pre-punishment ritual of stripping a boy naked and making him wonder and anticipate what was to come always benefited both the boy and the man. A boy's penis was always in a salutary posture during his anticipation and a man could be assured that, by the time he returned to his boy to hand him his spanking, he'd be ready to ejaculate.
The wait for my return was two hours. Just as soon as I had popped the chicken into the oven, and regulated the cooking timer, I went to get him.
He sprang up from the chenille spread. I examined his penis as I approached the bed where he'd been sitting.
"Have you been playing with yourself?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No, sir."
"You're hard and long, aren't you?"
He nodded, casting his eyes on his own 8-inch that was standing outward from his bushy foliage.
"But I didn't touch myself, sir," he exclaimed. "I just can't .... help this. See, you took away my pants and underwear, and the visual itself is stimulating, sir."
I smiled. How I loved my boy.
I reached for his T-shirt and completely removed it. I left him to simmer further in his bemusement while I used the bathroom.
I fetched the enema equipment from the pedestal cabinet and proceeded to assemble it for his enema. I first filled the bag with water. Next, I hung it up on its harness and examined the clamp, tube and nozzle. When everything was found in perfect working condition, I returned to him and took his hand.
He was instantly nonplussed to see the bag hung up in the bathroom.
"Sir, may I please speak, sir?" he stammered.
I nodded.
"Why are you giving me an enema, sir?"
"Because I'm your master and you're my boy. You do what I tell you and what I think is good for you."
"Yes, sir," he whispered, unconsciously tightening his fingers which had been curled round mine.
I made him lie down on the scarred plastic cot that had been delivered to our hermitage for occasions such as an enema. He seemed not to recall the cot or the enema equipment. No matter, I reminded myself, for my giving him the enema was not an occasion to fiddle with mental valence and propel his memory to search his past. For the nonce, it was purely _s_e_x_ I wanted to enjoy with him. I wanted my boy to relearn the joys of an enema as _s_e_x_ual foreplay. This, and the possibility that, from the medical standpoint, administering to him a colonic irrigation would cleanse his bowels and improve his health.
I re-arrayed his body so that he was lying on his left side. I told him to draw his knees up to his chest, but not too tightly. The gentle lines of his curled body asserted themselves before my eyes as he put my simple command into action.
I opened up the tube of KY Jelly. I squeezed out a generous portion and took the lubrication to his anus. I gently spread it around his anal walls and then carefully inserted my fingers into his rectum. I lubricated his sphincter, using this opportunity to stimulate his anus. As he started to groan with pleasure, I increased the pressure in the stimulation.
Hearing him sniffle, I stopped. I studied his face for clues about his emotions. He wasn't afraid so much as concerned.
"Please, sir," he urged, "please carry on. I'm all right. I'll endure whatever you want to give me. I won't disappoint you."
I smiled, appreciating the simplicity of his avowal. Nevertheless, I had wanted his opinion about what I was doing and whether it was safe for me to proceed. In the eternal decencies of civilized life, Jeff was entitled to fair play and compensation. After all, his safety, health and emotions were put in my hands. A boy this vulnerable was a human compass any sagacious master would subtly consult to avoid operating over the non-life-threatening line.
Stage one of his preparation over, I persuaded him to relax his anal muscles. I handled the enema tube, carefully introducing the nozzle end into his anus. While it navigated its way amid his rectal muscles and membrane, I applied experience and instincts to feel its passage into his sphincter. My boy's endurance level passed the nozzle's muster. I next negotiated the clamp, releasing it to allow the water to sluice into his rectum.
After a while, his stomach began to distend. I continued my meticulous supervision, metering the enema flow from this point on. Later I slowed the flow with a regular gradation.
I sat beside my boy to lend some practical assistance. I caressed his stomach. My other hand stroked the subtle waves of the luscious blond locks he had diligently trained with Paul Mitchell's pommade. He relaxed under my coddling. At my discreet prompting he eased his face up to receive my kiss.
It was time to stop the flow completely. I had heard him cramping fervidly. I told him to keep his fluids in for a moment longer. I left the nozzle in his anus and drew out a bedpan, a gift from Tristan, from the cabinet. Returning shortly to him, I removed the nozzle from his anus, doing it with extreme caution, and then placed the disinfected pan under his bottom and gave him permission to evacuate.
While he did that, I gently massaged his stomach. This always encouraged a complete cleansing of his colon. I employed loving words to pacify him above the series of embarrassing noises that were emitting from his stomach and anus in tandem with the evacuation process. Now and then I caressed his penis to pleasure him _s_e_x_ually.
"I love you," I told him at the last phase of his evacuation.
We fell into spasmodic passions with each other. Locking limbs and lips, we were co-conspirators joined in mutual defense against all his adversities. His penis was in my grip, and my experienced manipulation, milking his semen that didn't take long to spill over my hand and arm. Thereafter completely spent, we nevertheless kept our mouths locked on each other.
At some length we prised ourselves from each other. He lay still, panting, while I reached under him to remove the pan. I lightly and gently wiped his soiled anus with 'Wet Ones'. Then quietly left him to draw his bath water. He continued to lie still on the cot when I next went to the kitchen to fix him a milkshake.
"Thank you, sir," he smiled as he accepted the milkshake from me. Some spark answerable to my own appeared in his smile. I watched him gulp down the shake while I removed my own clothes.
I put away the empty glass and swept him into my arms. We entered the bath. I bathed him with a chamois cloth, paying close attention to his tender puckering anus. Afterward we stood under the shower to rinse off. I took him into my arms while the water rained down on us. I soothed his body with my arms, loving him for being my very willing and obedient slave.
Some unsettling fancies seemed to burst open in his mind as I was washing his feet. They appeared to be rolling back and forth inside his head.
I asked him what was wrong.
"Don't stop," he pleaded, placing his head on my shoulder. I complied and continued bathing him.
"It's coming back to me," he added.
He pulled away before I could ask him to elaborate. He raced back to the room. Then fell prostrate on the carpet. I followed with a thick towel, furling it over the freshness of the soap that was emanating from his bottom.
"You looked after me," he said. "You bathed me the entire time I was immobile, even after I'd crap myself. Just like today."
I stretched out opposite him, our foreheads so close they almost touched. I assumed a listening position.
"It happened after our accident," he said, his eyes fastened upon mine.
"Yes," I responded.
"That's how we met 3 years ago," he said, proceeding to describe very sparingly the incident of the inauguration of our love. "I was at the university. I was attending a seminar and you were a panel speaker. After the seminar, I was taking my bike out of the parking lot and didn't see you backing out your car. I totaled my bike into your tail. It skidded under your tires. Fortunately, I had fallen off before the bike hit you. My leg was in a cast and you took care of me after that. You took me back to your own house because mine was a mess. Mom was always on the bottle, though I can't figure out why this is so, and didn't care what happened to our domicile or to me.
"My leg was in a cast and that diminished my capacities. Consequently you fed me and bathed me every day for 3 months. You carried me to the john and cleaned me up after every crap. Later, you took me to school when I was able to move in a crutch. We became fairly close. Emotionally and spiritually I'd been a barren landscape but you sanctified me with your love. I fell in love with you, too. I confessed that, as well as my _s_e_x_ual orientation, to you. You were the first person I came out to.
"But my leg healed by and by. I felt I'd overstayed your hospitality and voluntarily ousted myself. I was finishing school at that time. I aced my final exams and made class valedictorian. But you were right before: there were some money problems, so I had to leave school for good to begin work at that club.
"That was how it all started for us, Brad, wasn't that?"
I nodded. I felt so proud of him: the drought was over. As was his crushing depression, soon, I hope, to smooth out those perceptible circles of his month-long dismay. It had taken an enema to do this. Imagine that: his intermittent series of remembrances of this particular incident had come to a culmination amid the odor of ptomaine, eucalyptus and chamomile!
I got off the floor, raising him up along with me. I toweled dry his supple body.
"I was with you night and day," I said, having my turn in completing what macabre residue was left of our love story. We were now sitting naked on the bed. "When it was over, when you got better, I felt sorry to see you go. And when we met up again at the club, almost a year had gone by."
He nodded, falling forward against me. "If you hadn't done this, sir, given me the enema and then bathed me, maybe my memory of this incident might never have been fed. Thank you, sir."
We hugged each other for a very long time.
When we finally released each other, I reminded him of his spanking. It was time, I told him. He had made no demurral, so I commanded him to fetch my slipper from the adjacent room. Something appeared to have put the spring back into his steps as he made quick work of bringing the implement to me.
"Okay, over my lap," I said as soon as he had returned to me with my slipper.
He was once more obedient. He struggled to heave his body over my lap, falling heavily on it. He adjusted his body, making elaborate and erotic movements on top of me. When he finally found a comfortable position across my knees, he relaxed completely.
"This spanking is simply because I feel you need it. But it's also punishment for the way you behaved towards Tristan the last time. You remember that?" I asked.
"I remember," he answered. "I was rude to him."
"Yes, so you deserve to be spanked and severely. Now hang on to my legs."
He clutched both my ankles, announcing, "I'm ready, sir."
He had also raised his bottom up and soon as his muscles relaxed, I let my hand meet his cheeks. But I had commenced his spanking with a somewhat stagey reluctance.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! went my expert but sparing hand.
He responded to my imposture, whimpering only slightly. I found my permission to carry on with greater vehemence.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! My hand tormented his bottom.
He swore variously.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! My hand was not ready to let up.
Nor turn away from his obsequious hunger. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
And again. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
But my dear one was suddenly beside himself with emotions, flailing his legs frantically, wiggling his bottom dramatically, as he tried to dodge the blows. I paused and pondered his movements with a matriarchal sense of discomfort.
And here was a given: however much a boy hungered for a spanking, the separation between a spanking and a tearful proclamation against it was impossible. My boy was proof of this.
I next heard his inarticulate descant to observe all basic rules of courtesy toward his guests – if only I'd stop his spanking now.
"My bottom feels like it's on fire, sir," he added.
"You're a good boy, Jeff," I told him. "But your punishment is just beginning. I haven't even used my slipper yet. But when I've finished spanking you with my slipper, you will have learned to master your emotions. Whatever you're feeling – angry, frustrated, lousy – it doesn't give you carte blanche to treat others with disrespect. Otherwise, your underwear will come off for a trip over my lap. Is this clear, boy?"
"Yes, sir," he sobbed, all his body language collapsed into chronic humility.
I bent down to pick up my slipper. I resumed his punishment, handing him a straightforward slippering; no novel, gratuitous and inventive ways about its delivery had been called for.
By the twentieth swat, a colony of wildlife had collected outside the window, chirping in synchronous time a cannibalistic symphony. By the thirtieth, it was clear I had indubitably outlived the usefulness of the slipper.
I relaxed my arm. For to carry on would be needless abuse that bore no resemblance to my original objectives. My boy's cheeks were crimson already. His choking pleas an incoherent madrigal. Now, it was really over. I consigned my slipper to the floor.
I gathered my boy in my arms and let him be himself. As he sobbed uncivilly, I brooded on the redness of his bottom. I felt a lot of satisfaction. I started to placate him, cooing him with loving words until my stock of consolatory phrases was completely exhausted.
The dusk settled about the same time serenity was being restored to my boy. The pillow he'd put over his face soundproofed any lingering pronouncements of his humility or resentment. I turned him on the bed. I paid his spanked bottom a protracted version of my soothing ministration. Following that, while his bottom was still warm, I raised him from the bed and prescribed a half-hour's corner time. He was tired already and any longer would be gratuitously cruel.
Not much later, at the appointed hour, I returned to him with our dinner tray. I re-claimed him and we ate our dinner together in bed.
A marked improvement was already noticeable in his general outlook.
© 1998, 2001, JRK & BWK.
(Next: Past Imperfect 12)