We called him HOOKS
Kids can be cruel, and the kids in Mr. Bents shop class were no exception. We taunted with the best of them, and made the teachers life as difficult as we could. We knew where the line was though, and the paddle hung right in the middle of that class, waiting, hanging there just ready to blister a teenagers bottom that dared to break the rules. Safety was everything in that class, and if you broke a safety rule then you took the paddle.
There was one exception, and he had bright blond hair and blue eyes that seemed to sparkle. Mark Jefferson, and he was missing his arms. Instead, he had two hooks that stuck out of the bottom of his long sleeve shirt, and sometimes, when were being especially cruel, we would even call him HOOKS although never loud enough for a teacher to overhear. We kidded him at lunchtime, and laughed at him in the halls. He was bigger than the rest of us, and he had the kind of body that we would have envied if he had had some arms to go with it. None of us were afraid of him, and so we kidded him at every chance we got, and while we knew he hated it none of us cared.
He was a pretty big kid, and had flunked a grade or two I think, or at least had missed out on some school somewhere along the line. Of course, being older, he was a lot more along physically than most of us in that class. I remember a couple of things about him. His ass for one. He wore the tightest jeans, almost like he just was growing out of them. His bottom always stuck out of them, like a bubble butt, the fabric so tight and the bulge in his crotch visible and pronounced. He was older, like I said, and so he had more of a bulge there anyway than any of the rest of us. He sat across from me, and I would sometimes stare at his bulge and I figured his package just had to be huge. At least, compared to mine it had to be. I tried not to stare, but he had the bulge and he had the hooks and he was just too interesting not to look at now and then.
He was sixteen or seventeen in a class of fourteen year olds, and his blond hair shimmered. It was long and he had bangs that he liked to toss with a wave of his head. He had a little mustache too, and his cheeks had some fuzz on them that was thick but whispy, the beginnings of a beard I suppose although it didnt really look like one. But I dont think he had shaved yet, and perhaps, he couldnt. But it was the hooks for hands that stood out, and yet he still drew his drawings and used the tools just like the rest of us. We always had to draw the drawings first, and then afterwards we would make what we had drawn.
Whenever I looked at his desk he would have that little pink pearl eraser in his left hook, clamped in there tight as a vice, and in his right hook was the mechanical pencil, straight up and down and his whole body sort of moving to make the curves and draw his figures. Yeah, he was good with the hooks, and his plans were as good as anybodys. I never ask him how he lost his arms, but I think it was in a farm accident. None of us talked to him much, and he was sort of the class reject, the handicapped kid and one thing we all knew is that he wasnt never gonna get the paddle no matter what he did.
Now, taking the paddle in some classes wasnt that big a deal. Just a quick little bend your butt over and whack-whack and it was over. But not in shop class, no sir. Not in that class. In Mr. Bents class the paddle was something to FEAR. First of all, it was varnished hardwood, made from solid black walnut, and it was sanded as smooth as a babys ass it was.
The drill press had been used to make the holes, and they were sanded as well and the light shone right through them. When it moved through the air the holes made a sound that reverberated right through the class, which was always interrupted by a CRACKKKKKKKKKK and then a gasp and then a yell or a scream or a YEOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW as the boy took the hit. Yeah, always the same.
The finish was made like fine furniture, and it glistened under the florescent lights of the classroom. It was long, hanging down as long as any paddle in the school, and the handle was wrapped in leather and it just looked mean, and it was. Sure, Mr. Bent had told our parents it was there to keep us safe, that only by enforcing the safety rules could he make sure we all finished his class with the same amount of fingers that we started the year with. So, our parents were all for that paddle, and they embraced its use and trusted him to swing it. We were at its mercy, and we all knew it and it was just one of those things that we couldnt control.
The shop class was well equipped, and we had a lot of power tools and could make almost anything. Of course, every tool had its own safety rules, and if you broke a single one then you got your ass set on fire. That was the way it was, and we learned the rules pretty fast we did. The biggest rule was the safety circle where only one student at a time was allowed near a machine. Another was loose clothing—it just wasnt allowed. Take the drill press in the corner, where Richard Socks had caught his shirt sleeve. Six cracks of that board had reduced him to tears, and I can still hear him crying as Mr. Bent buried that board right into his bottom, perched over the stool and gripping it with his hands like there was no tomorrow. Yeah, when the paddle was being swung even the windows rattled.
Then, there was the foundry, where we poured the molten aluminum and made the castings. The foundry was popular, but it had the most signs of any of the stations, and none of us could ever forget when Ricky Misker dropped the mold cause he was screwing around. Six. Six of the best, right on his pants and after four he had screamed as he took the rest. God. CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK. CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK. CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK. I remember the blows were so hard he had to grab the stool and reposition it so he was in the proper position to take another. He whimpered and cried and begged, but Mr. Bent didnt care, and he nailed that boys ass with the paddle and everyone that was there will never forget it. Talk about the tears! I remember them just flowing down that kids face, running down like some little kids, even though he was a fourteen year old teenager. He had pissed a wet spot in his pants too, and none of us ever let him forget that little transgression. Yeah, that board could reduce any kid to tears, and it could humiliate you to the core. The other thing that kept you on your toes was that we all knew that Mr. Bent sure didnt hesitate to swing it.
I had my first turn, right around Christmas. Tommy Satter was using the table saw, and I turned it on for him. Yeah, not supposed to do that, and he had jumped back with the surprise when I had and I had got the laugh. I even was stupid enough to laugh too, until Mr. Bent had my ass perched up in the air and I got to feel that paddle.
BEND OVER AND PERCH IT UP JENNINGS.
Never felt anything like that before in my entire life. It slammed into me, and then again and then again and then one more time just to make sure. Oh God the pain of it! Each blow was like a thousand hornets and they stung with a fury with each impact, right through the pants almost as if I was naked. I was crying by the third hit, just bawling like a baby then, the burn so intense and the pain so deep I thought I was dying. Still, I hung there and took the last one, and when it came I was babbling like a baby I was I was I was. I also squirted a little piss in my pants...just came out and wetted my underwear. I dont think anyone knew it, but I knew I had and it was so humiliating and the wet spot was visible, barely, and I just wanted to die. Thankfully, no one had noticed.
Of course, he always had us put our wallet on our desks, and then we bent over our stools and he nailed our butts. Everyone would watch of course, and listen, and no matter who you were you could feel the embarrassment as it consumed you. I was fourteen and a half when I took my first swats, and my ass burned for all that day and long after I was home.
What made it even worse was that the other kids in the school soon knew you had been paddled, and you always had to live through the comments during the lunch hour and on the bus. They would taunt you too, the way you cried and the way the tears had flowed. I couldnt help it, and nor could anyone else for that matter. Still, if you took the paddle you took the heat, and kids can be cruel and they were. The girls laughed the loudest, and it was so humiliating when they would laugh at the story of our reactions to our burning bottoms. They loved to hear the stories, and the guys that were there loved to tell it all.
It didnt stop at school either. I remember too at the dinner table, having to get the note signed and so having to tell my dad that I had gotten paddled in shop class. My little brother and older sister laughed at that, at the knowledge that my little teenage bottom had been set on fire while the class watched it happen. They of course wanted to see it, and I remember my father thinking that was a a good idea. Oh God I had been so humiliated then, as my father made me bend over and drop my pants. I remember that oh so well.
Well Michael Randalph Jennings.....since you got paddled I think your brother and sister might learn from this....lets see it mister.
God. Right at the dinner table, I had to show my naked ass with my teenage balls dangling down, and oh it was still bright pink that many hours later and oh how they had all laughed. I could have died of course.
I remember when Scott Michaels walked away from the band saw while it was running. Five swats, all burned into his bubble but. He squirmed with every one, bouncing up and down on his legs and yelling out with each blow. The tears had flowed down his face as he apologized, begging for the blows to stop as his ass was turned into an inferno. Still, the teacher never hesitated, and he burned that teenagers bottom until we all KNEW it was glowing red.
The other thing that was true was just because you had been paddled once didnt mean you couldnt get it again. It didnt matter. If you broke a rule and it related to safety, then you got the paddle right then and there. I found out that the hard way, when I forgot to tuck my shirt in and went to use the sander. He took one look and yelled, and even as I shut down the motor I knew I was screwed and oh God I was right. I got four swats from him for that, and I remember as I was taking them that I had to look right into the eyes of HOOKS, right into his bright blue eyes as they sparkled and he watched.
I couldnt figure his expression though. Something between a smile and a wonder, between being happy I was getting it and perhaps wondering what it was like. Oh it burned so bad, and try as I might I was crying by the second one, the burn just so bad and that pain radiating up and down my legs like there was no tomorrow. I squirted in my pants again that time, and I know that hooks noticed cause his expression changed and he had stared at the wet spot my piss had made. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life. I got lucky though, and for some reason he never said anything to anyone.
The second time I came home with the note my dad was pretty pissed. Not at the teacher, no sir, not at Mr. Bent. He was mad at me for screwing with the table saw and now that sander, and he told me that if I ever came home paddled again then he would give me a second licking himself! He signed the note, and Ill never forget what he wrote.
Dear Mr. Bent, I am very sorry for Michaels continued misbehavior. I would appreciate it if you could see that his next school project is making a paddle for me to keep at home. If he causes further problems in your class I want to be able to reinforce the lesson here as well.
Oh GOD. I was so humiliated then, as I had to use the table saw to cut my own black walnut, shaping it with the band saw and sanding it until it was as smooth as a piece of glass. The varnish went on and was sanded and then on again. Slowly, over the weeks my little paddle became part of my grade, the board a duplicate of the one in class and I remember that I got an A on it. Oh, the embarrassment that it brought. The entire school knew I was making a paddle, just for my ass, so my father could turn my ass cherry red anytime he wanted and whenever I screwed up. The school knew it, my classmates knew it, and I knew it. For a teenager, it was about as humiliating as anything can be and that _d_a_m_n_ paddle hung in my room all the way through my senior year.
We all got paddled in that shop class, all of us except for Mark Jefferson. He seemed to get off for things we would not, or at least we imagined that he did. We all hated him and chided him and called him HOOKS whenever we could. Yeah, kids can be cruel, and we were. There was no sympathy from any of us, and he withdrew into his corner and drew his plans and made his projects. He made the grade, in that class. He wasnt a mean sort really, and even offered to help me finish my paddle project, which of course was a prospect that turned my face beet read. I turned him down, and kidded him instead, and he took the name of HOOKS and WHIMP and TEACHERS PET and BUBBLE BUTT and we never let him rest.
Toward the end of school it happened, and after that I learned a lesson about people that I have never forgotten. The big blond haired boy with the HOOKS that I hated so much just sorta surprised us all, and after that, well, after that I learned something about myself and something about people that changed me for the better. HOOKS was on the table saw, ripping a piece of lumber with his fake arms, using the hook to hold the pushing stick and letting that big blade do its work. I was walking by him, looking at his butt, stuck out as he leaned over the saw, and to this day I dont know why but I guess I hated him so much so I did it.
Anyway, I glanced and the teacher wasnt looking, and I sorta slipped into the safety circle and just bumped into him on purpose, knocking him forward. I hadnt meant to do it hard, just enough to scare him, to get a reaction and to get a laugh perhaps. Instead, what happened went way beyond anything I had imagined. The bump caused his left hook to slip, and as it did the board came free, the power of the blade slamming the piece of lumber right off the saw. It sailed across the classroom so fast it was a blur, and slammed right into the wall with a crash that shocked the entire room. At the same time he had fallen forward, losing his grip, and the edge of his fake arm had caught the blade and in a flash the saw had ripped his sleeve and cut a gouge half-way through it.
I gasped, and he jerked away, and I reached down and turned off the saw and I was shaking and so was he. About half the class had seen the entire thing, of what I had done and what had happened. Mr. Bent had missed it, but when that flying board had barely missed our heads and cracked into the wall he had spun around pretty fast and he had seen HOOKS intertwined in that saw, part of his fake arm turning to splinters with me within the safety circle. I was dead meat and I knew it sure as _s_h_i_t_ I did.
The teacher was screaming at me, and he ran the length of that shop and was then helping the armless boy out of it, looking at the slice in his fake arm like it was a real wound, and me over to the side waiting, waiting for the paddle that I knew would burn my ass.
It didnt take long, and then Mr. Bent was screaming at me, at me being within the green line, where no two students were ever allowed to be. Then he was reaching for the paddle and I was feeling the feeling as the humiliation of what was going to happen was beginning to overwhelm me. The teacher was as mad as I had ever seen him, and then he said YOU ARE GETTING EIGHT...EIGHT WHACKS WITH THIS BOARD YOU ARE. WHEN I AM DONE WITH YOUR BOTTOM MISTER, YOU ARE GONNA THINK YOUR ASS HAS BEEN BURNED RIGHT OFF OF YOU!!!!
Eight! Oh GOD. I almost pissed my pants from the fear. My bladder was full and it was a real possibility. I might have too, except that just before I did the boy with the hooks for arms spoke up and saved my ass.
Mr. Bent....ah.....um....it wasnt Michaels fault sir. I was screwing up....didnt set up the fence the way you are supposed to, and he...well, he just came into the green line to get the saw off before it chewed me up sir. I screwed up sir, not HIM. I let go of the board and it just went sailing. Im the one that broke the rules.
The class went dead silent. Ill never forget it. I was staring at him, covering for me, taking the blame when he was blameless. I started to say something, to fix the lie even, but that paddle was there, waiting, and OH GOD I KNEW, just KNEW, how bad it burned and I just couldnt make my mouth move no I couldnt. Nobody could take eight whacks, and I knew if he started on my ass Id never live it down and Id piss my pants for sure I would.
The teacher looked skeptical, and he turned to me and said Is that right JENNINGS?
What could I say? I knew I couldnt take the hits, and I thought of that paddle waiting for me at home, and after that I just nodded, lied as I did it, passing the blame to the blond haired boy who had no arms. I felt like _s_h_i_t_, but I did it, let him cover for me as I ran from the paddle and the humiliation of it.
Mr Bent hesitated, and then said OK THEN...GET YOUR ASS OVER THE STOOL JEFFERSON. YOU JUST EARNED YOURSELF EIGHT SWATS.
You could hear the entire class gasp. Eight...God..eight swats and he had no arms! None of us ever thought he would take a single hit, and now, he was going to the stool and taking more swats that anyone had ever taken. Worse, they were swats he didnt deserve! I knew I should say something...I wanted to, but the fear was so great I just couldnt do it. I had tears in my eyes and I wasnt even getting hit. Oh God that paddle burned, and I KNEW IT BURNED and there was another one at my house that would also be used! The entire class knew I was to blame, and yet, nobody said anything. They figured it was up to me I guess, up to me and HOOKS and so they let it all play out.
He didnt change his story, even with the threat of eight hits in front of him. Instead, he bent his ass over that seat, moving his back the way he had to to get his arms to move. He got into the position, his two hooks down over the rung on the stool, holding himself in position with his legs partially spread and his ass on display. His jeans were oh so tight, and his entire bottom was stuck up, perched up just oh so perfect for that paddle. I could see the fabric was thin, and there was a small hole in the seat of his jeans and the rip was big enough you could see a bit of his flesh poking through. It was white, snow white, untanned and just THERE right below the line of his undershorts. I also saw his package, bulging bigger than I had ever seen it, stuffed in there and filled with his manhood.
Mr. Bent took the paddle, and as soon as he swung it I knew he wasnt giving the boy with no arms any break at all. The swisssssssssssssssssssssssh of the paddle was as shrill and as fast as it had ever been, and when it impacted into his rear the entire stool had rocked forward from the blow. The smack just CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKED across the room, and the teenagers eyes flew open, wide open, the shock on his face one of absolute total surprise. I dont think he had ever been hit before, by any teacher, and from the look on his face I just knew the burn was consuming him.
He grunted, but that was all. Just a grunt as the paddle hit home, smacking into him, the bubble butt taking the blow and his eyes wide as he felt it. The paddle was moving again, way up this time, and then it was into him with such force the entire class grimaced as it made the CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK for the second time.
Mark grunted again, and he bit his lip, fighting it perhaps, as the pain radiated across his teenage rear and burned into him like a nuclear fire. He wiggled his bottom, sort of across the seat, as if he was looking for another position. But other than that, he made no sound, and no movement, just holding his bottom perched up and almost begging for it, as if he wanted it even.
Mr. Bent was used to getting a lot more of a reaction when he swung the paddle, and so for the third swing he moved it with a speed I had never seen before. His entire arm was in full swing, and it came down so fast that the sound of the air through the holes changed to a new pitch.
CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK
When it impacted into Marks rear I was watching his entire ass take the hit, the paddle seemed to literally compress into his buttocks. Still, he just grunted, and his eyes were staring then, wide, staring at me as I faced him. We were looking at each other, face to face, the armless boy taking my swats and the fear inside of me like nothing I had ever felt before. I could see the boys blue eyes and they were watering, and I knew the pain was overwhelming him, trying to take his dignity and turning his bottom cherry red as it was doing it.
Then, again, with almost no hesitation, the fourth blow came with a vengeance.
CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK
From the expression on our teachers face it was apparent he was trying to get a reaction, to pull the tears out of Marks blue eyes that were staring into my soul. I looked at Marks bottom, and what I can never forget was the color of his ass that was visible up through that small rip in his pants. It was bright red, as red as a painted stop sign, beet red and literally shining. His ass had to be on fire! Still, except for the grunt, and the water in his eyes, he just laid there across that bench and took the hits, one after the other. None of us could believe it!
Again, the paddle was moving. This time the aim was lower, and the big piece of walnut impacted right where his legs met his thighs. The fifth blow caused him to grunt louder this time, and then he said OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH as the paddle ripped into his rear. He blinked, and his mouth came open with the hit and I could see he was struggling to keep control. Me moved his hips, and his big bubble butt that was stretched so tight in his thin jeans seemed to hump into his stool seat, up and down as he sought to cool it, and yet he kept his composure and gritted it out and never made a sound.
The sixth hit was harder still, so hard the stool fell forward, into me, and I caught it and pushed it back. The CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK was different too, a funny extra sound that came from somewhere and nowhere, and yet the boy didnt move and didnt wiggle and didnt yell out as unbelievable as that was. Instead, he just grunted again when his bottom took the hit, the fire burning his seat clear off. I know it was burning like a hot iron, his flesh feeling the sizzle like there was no tomorrow. Still, his eyes stayed open, staring at me, at ME and at my crotch, the boys face an expression of pain and of misery. I hated myself, and yet I stood and watched, totally amazed at his ability to keep himself together.
The seventh hit was almost cruel I think, the way Mr. Bent hauled back and swung his body to make it count. The swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh was cut off by the CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK that seemed to rock the room, the sound of it so loud that none of us would ever forget it. It had a strange hollowness to it, and the sound was harsher, deeper, and the impact harder. That blow got to him, somewhat, and he yelled out ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG as he took the hit. He was starting to squirm then, moving his bottom from side to side and up and down, and in a way it was almost a _s_e_x_ual look as he ground the seat with his hips and sought his relief. I remember staring at his package as he was doing that, imagining his _c_o_c_k_ and his balls inside as he made the motion. I could visualize him _f_u_c_k_ing a girl, the boys package big and obviously well on his way to manhood. Still, there were no tears, none at all, just some watery eyes that stared, unblinkingly, into me and through me and slowly, they became a part of me.
It was the final blow that we would never forget. Mr. Bents expression one of anger even, the teacher losing control as he failed to get the response he always got. He moved his entire body, making the swing that final time, his arm and back and body moving the paddle so fast the eye couldnt follow it. When the paddle hit home it split, the paddle snapping at the handle and the board flying away, broken in half over Marks jutting ass. He broke the paddle! As it snapped with a CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK the entire class cheered, cheered for the blond hair boy who had no arms. He was suddenly our hero, and he had taken the paddle and his bottom had beaten it! He was our friend, and we helped him up and patted him on his back and I remember I hugged him and it was OK that I did that. I remember that he grinned then, grinned at all of us, and after that the word spread through the school so fast and from then on he was on top of the world.
Mark made class president the next year, and after that class he and I became friends. We shared a lot of things after that shop class, and I learned more about what is important in life from him than I ever did from any of my teachers. Yeah, funny thing, but after that I never even thought about his arms being missing anymore. Just never gave that much of a thought. Instead, he was just a friend, and our friendship grew and grew until he was the best friend in my life.
[Authors note: © Copyright September, 2002. All rights reserved. Not to be copied without the consent of the author. All comments are appreciated, more than you can know. Nathan9001@yahoo. com]