Brad's Diary
It was a Friday evening when I found Jeff at the pianoforte. His velveteen fingers caressing the keys to construct the 'Little Suite' to near perfection had drawn me to the music room. I sat next to him and thence our feet seamlessly segued over the pedals to create another fugue.
"I remember my trip to Europe about 4 years ago," he said during the passages of Purcell's 'Abdelazer'. "Just came back to me."
I stole a sidelong glance at him. Then prodded him to tell me more completely about it.
"I was touring with the varsity choir," he said, his concentration divided between his tale and our lilting andante. "My school had won first place in a regional music competition. I played the violin in the school's philharmonic orchestra. This scar on my head: I remember now how I had fallen while ice skating in Sweden."
I nodded.
"My brother got into trouble one time because of my piano lessons," he continued. "Did I ever tell you this story?"
I shook my head. "Tell me," I urged, still happy to play the part of his freelance emotional missionary.
"It's another artifact that just came back to me," he smiled. "Anyway, it used to be a routine for Jan-Michael to come for me and take me home after my piano lessons in the evening, but one day he forgot. It wasn't deliberate. Jan-Michael had plucked up his heart to employ himself in the matter of 'coming out' concerning his bi_s_e_x_uality. His 'coming out' date, as he called it, was with a basketball teammate from school. It was one of the happiest days of his life, he would later tell me.
"It would have been just two months before he died. 'Soon as I realized he had forgotten me, I wandered to a public phone. The school was already closed so I couldn't go back there. Do you know, it was Jan-Michael who taught me this when I was a little boy: if I ever got into trouble, find the nearest phone and call home. But I'd spent all my pocket money on jellybeans that evening: wasn't that the darnedest thing?
"And like most children, I'd been taught never to talk to strangers. Dad used to teach us that strangers interested in children, who were none of their business, only had lucre in their minds. So of course I'd scurry away whenever one approached me.
"Very soon it got dark and I got afraid. It would be hours before Dad and Jan-Michael finally found me. I was still in the booth when they found me, crouching under the phone that I'd left hanging off the hook because I wasn't tall enough to replace it. But the reason they were able to find me was a hunch Jan-Michael had that I'd be trying to find a pay phone to call home. He simply knew that would be one lesson I'd remember from him.
"Poor sweet Jan-Michael – there was no escaping a punishment from our father. When we arrived home, Dad proceeded to his imperious dotage. He gave my brother his command to lower his pants to his ankles and then face the wall of the living room. Dad flipped his shirttail over his shoulders and spanked him on his thong-covered bottom. He used a wooden paddle. Jan-Michael had his own punishment paddle, which Dad used to hang up on the wall behind the door of his bedroom. It was well worn and in near disrepair. That must say a lot about my brother's discipline.
"Dad promised I would have my own paddle too – when I got bigger. There was a health angle to this, of course – I was still just 7 years old. My little bottom was still developing and hadn't the strength to bear up the weight of any spanking implement save the bare hand. So in the meantime, I would receive a hand spanking from Dad after I misbehaved, but this wasn't often.
"That night, after serving out his hour-long corner-time, Jan-Michael apologized to me, hugging me while I bawled at his spanked backside. Imagine that: he was in pain and I was the one bawling. In fact, he was smiling; he thought the entire episode had been such an exciting adventure. His only complaint was about the bad luck of having worn a thong instead of briefs that night. He had maintained that briefs might have given him more protection from his paddle's lambaste.
"Life was always such an adventure for Jan-Michael. How he loved it. And how I loved him."
At some point during his narrative, my boy had lain across my knees. I succored him.
II
Almost a year had passed since Jeff's abduction, which followed his memory loss. So much had since returned to normal. He had surmounted inscrutable odds to recover his knowledge of the many things, events and people that had been significant in shaping his past experiences.
There was only one event that remained locked up in the most remote and secret of his memory's reaches: what happened on the night of his abduction. Jeff was certain this would remain forever unknown to him, and although his emotions were very much on an even keel now, he'd sometimes let his frustration suppurate over this particular mystery. Afterward he'd break down in new tears.
Tristan maintained that Jeff's memory of that incident had been blocked, or, contrariwise, he had disciplined it, in the repression of his traumatizing experience. The trauma was not just in the physical injury he had sustained in the vicinity of those nodes of association contained in his brain, but more important, in what he had experienced before the injury. And this was of an emotional and psychological dimension. Simply put, he had been hurt and I had been the cause.
"It's been a year," I complained to Tristan. "Almost everything is back to normal. But that's the key – almost everything."
"I know how you feel," he consoled. "I know you're impatient for his memory to be fully restored to him. Don't forget though: the mind is a maze of memories, dreams and imaginings from which escape isn't possible. In time, he will remember that incident, but for this to happen, he must muster the courage to confront the hurt you had caused him, however deeply he had submerged it in his subconscious."
I knew it made sense, what he was saying. Jeff's faith in me had suffered a betrayal and on the subconscious level, he'd want to erase his memory of the experience. It was a self-defense mechanism.
Short of swearing out an affidavit, I longed to tell him ad rem what truly happened that night. But he'd grown tired of doing mortal combat with his amnesia. All he wanted now was to go back to school and continue his course.
"I'm through living like this," he moaned. He'd woken me up in the middle of the night. We were long past being strangers and had been sharing bedding for the last three months.
"It's memory building at the expense of living," he carried on. "Don't get me wrong, Brad. It's not that I no longer care what happened that night, the night I went missing, but I won't live like this anymore. I want to finish my course. Let me go back to college, Brad. I've already lost a full year. That's a lot of lost ground and I can't afford to waste any more time. The longer I defer the harder it'll be for me to catch up. You'll do something, won't you, Brad? Promise me you'll do something."
Finally relenting, I told him I'd try. I told him I'd do what was possible to persuade his professor and Tristan to run some tests that would ascertain if he remembered enough of his course to resume the following semester.
"But it's entirely Dr. Wixted's decision, all right?" I said.
He nodded and that was the end of the story.
In the meantime, we were having guests: my cousin, Bryce, from New York City, and his boy. Bryce was going to be out of town and I had agreed to 'baby-sit' for him.
III
I went to receive them at the appointed time.
"Hi," I said, even while they were mounting the steps outside the vestibule.
Bryce reached me first. He left his companion's side and took me in his arms. We hugged for a seemingly long time.
"Oh," he exclaimed, as though he was only just remembering, "this is Han. Han, meet Brad."
The boy, Han, held me irresistibly spellbound. I ran some adjectives through my mind, searching for some abiding truth in each lexicon that would explain him. I found none. He was truly surreal; for any master, he was a thing you always imagined naked, spanked and crying on your lap – a living specimen so completely possessing the ideal of helplessness without a semblance of flawed resistance, and he didn't even seem to try. I understood why Bryce would be afraid to leave him all alone in the city.
It was his extended hand that restored me to my manners. I shook it warmly. He gave a wide smile that showed off two rows of even, white teeth. But that was the only time. Henceforth, his shyness became apparent.
I had the help deliver their bags to the upstairs rooms while I led them into the living room where Jeff and Tristan were waiting.
Jeff had been full of competitive edginess: Are you really a guy? What do you do if you're not writing erotic stories? What do you call that accent of yours? Are those eyes real? How old are you? You look 14.
To which we were apprised of the following: Han was indeed a full-blooded male, was finishing college, was part Sino-Russian-Kazakhstani, on his father's side, and part Anglo-Chinese-Japanese, on his mother's, those eyes and accent were the results of said miscegenation, and, he'd be 23 December 5.
I glared unhappily at my boy. His behavior had been uncharacteristic and unbecoming. I wondered if he was simply ill mannered or playing up to be spanked. In either case, I knew I couldn't let the matter ride or there would be someone left in contempt or frustration: in the former, Han, in the latter, my Jeff. I drew on past experiences to read both boys' moods, figured they were testing me, and finally made my call. I pronounced loudly that I was going to spank Jeff for the embarrassment he'd made Han endure. And that I would carry it out immediately.
Helplessly, he stood beside me while I commenced removing his clothes for him.
"In front of the guests, sir?" he whispered, his question void of any gravity.
"Yes, Jeff," I replied in mock dismay, "in front of the guests you had expected to rise above your lack of civic-mindedness. And so soon after you promised me to be courteous at all times. You do remember making this promise to me, don't you?"
He nodded. "Yes, sir," he replied. "At the family retreat in Long Island, sir."
"Good boy," I said. "But have you kept your promise as far as Han is concerned?"
"No, sir," he said.
I nodded. "And what did I say would happen if you didn't keep your promise?"
"You said you'd remove my underwear and spank me, sir."
Once more I nodded. By then he was blushing becomingly and I had already stripped him of his sweater.
I put him out of his trousers next. I unbuttoned his fly and lowered his jeans to his ankles, exposing his thin underwear as well as those bulging assets of his that were straining against the fragile fabric barely covering his crotch. I admired him momentarily, his underwear – white cotton briefs – looking no less alike a baby's diaper around his groin.
The briefs were soon to follow his jeans, lowered completely to his ankles. I left his pants pooled around his feet and quickly hoisted him over my lap. Had he been even a bit resistant now I wouldn't have cared less. I was too far-gone. As were my guests, their interest in my boy's nudity singularly focused. My hand worked expediently to create a ruby-like relief on the whiteness of his bottom.
"Han gets a spanking from me, too," Bryce apprised while I continued spanking my boy's bottom, ignoring his pleas to cut him some slack.
"If you feel he needs one or deserves one, at any time during his stay here," he added, "please feel free to think of it as a favor to me and him. I wouldn't authorize anyone else to spank him, but I trust you. Only use no other implements except your hand."
I paused to consider my cousin's offer as well as to stimulate Jeff's anus. My boy was cooing softly. I knew then that answering his need for a spanking had been the right call. He was enjoying the attention, and that didn't preclude Bryce's or Han's.
Yet, for all my own boy's lovely response and performance, which hadn't been without much toil and pain, I had felt a compulsion to turn my attention to Han. This young man was blushing sweetly. His training delectably blameless, he'd issued no active resistance to his man's offer. After that, he went to sit alone on a single armchair. He looked adrift, I dare say, even envious of Jeff.
I watched Bryce move to minister to him. They were speaking softly but their conversation was a contract's fine print I recognized.
"We've talked about it, baby. It's not safe in the big city."
"I'm a big boy. I can look after myself."
"Is that how you got mugged last week? Look, it's just for 3 weeks. And I'll give you a spanking when I come back. Promise."
Han nodded. Then cranked his face up to receive Bryce's kiss.
It was time to consummate my boy's need. I sent him to fetch his paddle from the bedroom.
"This will be an opportunity for Jeff to be reacquainted with his old paddle," I informed everyone.
Jeff opened his mouth to protest but knew that wouldn't be safe, so stopped himself in time.
What was going on? I wondered to myself. For my little-boy-lost was playing his role so well it seemed uncanny. It seemed as if his memory had always been intact. I felt every pulse of my emotions throb within my heart and my penis.
"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Bryce suddenly said, admonishing his boy. I quickly found out why. A Cheshire grin was crossing Han's exotic face, but that was swiftly maimed.
In a stunning burst of drama, Bryce launched into his dour meister persona and began removing the boy's trousers – completely. Han's jeans and underwear were quickly lowered to his ankles and yanked away together with his loafers.
I examined the buttocks that were turned to me. I suppose I'd done that in anticipation of taking up Bryce's irresistible offer to spank them. Those cheeks, though round, tight and cutely dimpled, were pale. A distinguishing stigmatizing feature of a tiny fading welt was the only loveliness Han (or Bryce) allowed the bland meerschaum skin.
Bryce then sat his boy down upon his lap and succored him. The flush on the youth's cheeks deepened as he turned to look at me and then at Tristan. Nevertheless, he retained a subservient disposition on his man's lap.
About this time Jeff was returning with his customized wooden paddle. He stole a glance at our naked guest, looked surprised, but conspicuously killed his inclination to leer. Instead he proceeded to the coffee table and lay himself on top of it. I didn't even have to give him my orders. He waited on his back, noticeably trembling but just a little, exposing his private parts to the two guests and to Tristan.
"Han," I called, "I'd like you to hold up Jeff's legs, please. After all, you were the one he'd insulted. I think we all agree that the injury you suffered is an excellent basis for a boy's justifiable humiliation."
Jeff gasped, I smiled, and Han seemed to feel suddenly important. He happily complied, approaching us with his palms cupped over his private parts. Then grasping my boy's ankles together he raised them in the air. This exposed Jeff's bottom for the paddle's etiquette lesson. But he was in good company: Han's own nudity was all exposed as well.
Now, it had stood to reason that my boy was getting his adequate supply of exhibitive spanking, which he had absolutely enjoyed, for sure, but too much would have been inconsiderate of his wishes. I controlled the number of swats I administered to his already-sore bottom, carefully screening each rhythm and swing I was making. At final count, six smacks were all I could give him without harming him in any way. When he heard me put away the paddle, he got up and gratefully fell into my arms. I covered his nudity and swept him up. I carried him upstairs. There I told him he'd be taking corner-time when I later returned to entertain my guests.
Yet I didn't have the heart to leave the elixir of my life till I had spent a few minutes coddling him. After which I laid out a couple of condoms on top of the nightstand and, kissing him deeply, promised him that I wouldn't be long.
"There's nothing more beautiful than a grateful boy," I gave my opinion to Bryce. I was downstairs again. "And one that's also in tears."
Bryce nodded, accepting his second glass of wine from Tristan. We made a tacit toast to all our beloved 'boys'.
"It's really so good to see you again," I told Bryce. "We must catch up. What's been going on with you?"
"Him, for one thing," he said, nibbling on the earlobe of his companion on his lap. Han was still bare-bottomed, his hard-on scarcely concealed in Bryce's palms. I thought I heard him giggle.
The _d_a_m_n_ed exhibitionist, I said to myself ....
"For another," Bryce was saying in my lukewarm reverie, "Eton is finally getting married, which is why I'm going back to Iowa – to help with engagement and wedding plans."
He was talking about his only younger brother and henceforth we found ourselves tumbling into a miniature interlude into familial nostalgia. Though I was missing Jeff, I had enjoyed catching up with my cousin. As the evening and our tete-a-tete progressed, I realized it had been so long since I last did anything with him.
And as for his companion, Han, the longer he hung around, the more of a mystery I started to find him. And I certainly hadn't forgotten Bryce's offer to deal this boy some of my brand of erotic punishment. A boy like Han was simply too inviting to ignore.
Bryce had stayed the night with the boy and, the next morning, took a cab to the airport. Tristan took a separate cab to his home in downtown Manhattan. He had been missing his family and wanted to spend the last gasp of the summer with Sean and their two sons.
IV
I had seen Jeff to bed and was now ministering to Han.
"The bed comfortable for you?" I asked him.
He nodded. He was changing into satin nightclothes, pulling his pants up over his buttocks when I entered the room.
I sat down on his bed. He had opened up the Notepad to write his stories. I knew about his stories: Bryce had told me about the masterful intertwining of gay psychology, with all its kindred suffering, and institutional lampoons that made his writing distinct.
"Han's very passionate about advancing the gay cause," Bryce had added. "He's hoping that his meditations on selfhood would lend a different dimension and definition to the cause. He wants to post his stories on his homepage and let them be read for free; as he himself will tell you he doesn't think they're print worthy."
We'll just have to see, I thought.
"Han," I continued, "about what Bryce said yesterday, about letting me spank you ...."
"It's fine, sir," he said quickly. "Whenever you like."
"When were you last spanked?" I asked.
He blushed. "A fortnight ago."
"What do you think about being spanked at your age?"
He shrugged. Then his eyes twinkled. Secretive, he was, but I was able to make easy inferences from those little nuances of his body language. He was a spankophile, all right; you couldn't find a more ardent votary of regular spanking as the canon of a boy's life.
"You'd like more from Bryce, wouldn't you?" I asked.
"He's very busy right now," he said. "He's putting together a body of works for an exhibition at the Met."
"Yes, I heard about that. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, huh?"
"Yes, it's very exciting."
"Do you think I can read some of your stories some time?"
He nodded. "As long as you promise to comment."
I nodded. "Well, then, don't stay up too late."
We exchanged the usual amenities and I retired.
(To be concluded....)
© 1998, 2001, JRK & BWK.