by Mark Shay

A magic summer, in the full flush of adolescent _s_e_x_uality and opportunity came freely and often.

Somewhere about age eleven spankings took on the mystery they still hold for me. Dad used the belt and that meant being ordered to my room where I had to have shoes and trousers off before the Old Man got upstairs. I'd stand without trou in the room's center while he lectured and made certain I knew why I had to suffer, punctuating his pronouncements with supple snaps of doubled leather.

Then we'd head for the bed, I to lean over it, carefully arching the target area. Dad arranged by shirt if necessary and pulled my shorts to my ankles. He'd use the strap to probe between my legs as a sign to spread my legs more if things didn't suit. That strap was always dangled teasingly once or twice as if to caress against my bare ass; then he'd pull back and let go.

The world upside down in a boys eyes as he watches a father's arm swing the belt, hear the sharp report of belt and flesh, feels the stripe of crossing ass flesh. My _c_o_c_k_ and balls fascinated me seeing them free that way jogging and bouncing when the strap hit and I jumped involuntarily with the pain. And watching that _c_o_c_k_ and balls that way confirmed I didn't loathe this sentence the way I ought to. This was something Dad and I did together and the pain was only prelude to the hot, wet relief which followed.

As you see, I was a spanker at an early age. Summer of 1965 hit with endless long days and a neighborhood of six aimless boys, aged 12-15: Chris, David, Danny, Tom, Me, and Mike. Who suggested strip poker the first time I don't remember; it wasn't me though I seconded the motion with hearty abandon. Our first games, in the attic playroom of the house on 2nd Street, were that and no more. We'd play cards titteringly as shirts and shoes gave way to trousers and sox and then shorts. Removal of shorts always occassioned hooting and mirth. Mike's fifteen year old _d_i_c_k_ garnered some admiration and Chris caught humor's "butt end" for his as yet tentative twelve year old equipment.

Tom got the idea for penalty poker from some TV show where losers suffered a penalty while the winners got a prize. The idea as he presented it would be that we'd play poker until stripped and then if we lost after that we'd roll dice to choose a penalty numbered 1-12. Wow! Sounded great and concocting the list of penalties was white hot with an electric anticipation. We deep-sixed some as too dangerous: running to the mail box and back naked. Others our mature minds found too childish: having to pee standing upside down in the bath tub. But we came up with a list which included as many spanking numbers as I could include. 1- a light hand spanking over the winner's lap. 2- jumping jacks and push-ups. 3- walk around the room with a candle up the ass. 4- crab-walk around the room with a marble in the navel. 5- jerk-off upside down so the jizz might land on your face (if Chris rolled this he had to roll again). 6- Danny had a pretty mean looking paddle made in shop class. So. Six roll the die for a number of licks from the paddle. 7- Sit in a bowl of eggs and smear the broken eggs over _c_o_c_k_ and balls. 8- Take a suppository up the ass (I knew where these were in mom's cabinet. 9- Squat spread-legged over the big hand mirror from Dad's bath. 10- take an enema from Mom's douche bag I'd only just discovered. 11- Jack off and stick as much of the cum as possible up your ass. 12- the strap.

Some days intervened after we fixed the penalties before we could play. Pure _s_e_x_ I now know gripped us that afternoon we first played the penalty game.

David and Tom lost their clothes quick it seemed. David was the first to lose naked. He looked a little squeamish and may have had second thoughts as he rolled for a penalty. Four. He sat back, leaning over backwards and raised himself crabstyle to walk about the room. I had the pleasure of dropping a marble in the little well of his navel. He began his strut and almost at once the marble rolled to the floor. We hooted. Someone suggested his _c_o_c_k_ and balls looked a little silly and we agreed to play the next hand. This hand left Danny and Me naked. I lost the next hand.

Roll the die. Six.

Well, I'd wanted it. Six the die came up again. The most possible. Six licks with the paddle. Mike had won, would weild the board, and wanted it as much like Coach would do at school as possible. He suggested I get a jock for the ceremony. Danny's paddle was a work of art, lovingly sanded and smoothed with four bodacious holes down its center. Well, I'd be ready when Coach More paddled me next year in the mystical world of ninth grade. With jock on, I stood ready for Mike's insturctions. Bend over, standing away from the table (which had to do as coach's deak), spread your legs, and count each stroke. Hey! For a moment I even felt a little macho about to be paddled like the big kids.

Mike pulled back and swung. Nothing had me ready for this. A green-white wire seared in my head and I felt just like doubling up the way I had that spring when Jimmy McGruder kicked me in the nuts. Could I take another. Five more? Mike spoke: Coach gives you a breather after the first one. I breathed I guess. Then he swung. Two escaped from some voice within me. How could I do this. Three. Four. At four or just after I felt my _d_i_c_k_ going hard. Five. Six. I didn't want him to stop.

Well let's see. That afternoon: Chris took the suppository up his ass though we had to shame him into sticking it way up. His finger came out a little worse for the trip. David got the strap: just three. Tom did jumping jacks and we all jacked off, except Chris who enjoyed the show with envy. I wanted more of the paddle but felt I'd better not show my desire. There'd be more days that magic summer.

Other stories by Mark Shay