Carl eased back the clutch in his late Model mustang, reducing gear as he turned from the main street onto a pleasant, elm-lined drive. As on most Friday evenings, he was nearly trembling in anticipation as he emerged from the trees, driving along a wide, green yard to the antiquated stone house. Parking his car in the circular drive before the front door, he nodded pleasantly to the uniformed security guard and was instantly waved in. Inside, he stepped purposefully to the reception desk, staffed this week by one of the newer clerks.
"I'm sorry sir, you'll have to remind me who you're here for," the woman apologized.
"No problem at all. Nicholas Kim."
"Oh." Her face took on a sober aspect. "I'm afraid we have quite a pretty tale to tell you this week, sir." She shuffled through a file drawer and removed an overstuffed folder, carefully extracting three pages from the back and handing them across the desk. "I'll call up for Nicholas, if you're ready, sir."
Carl nodded and began to look over the papers. It was clear that his little friend Nick had enjoyed a quite adventurous week. He attempted to appear serious, but, afraid he might betray his growing enthusiasm, he soon stuffed the papers into his jacket with a grunt. "I'll finish that when I get home. It looks like fascinating reading." He allowed his tounge to linger over the word "fascinating," drawing a chuckle from the receptionist.
A moment later, Dr. Wesley came through the large door to his right. He was grasping a young Korean boy by the elbow, more compelling than accompanying him into the foyer. Nick was impossibly small for a nine year old, but the surly look with which he greeted Carl betrayed the rebellious spirit of a much older child. He jerked his arm free as soon as Dr. Wesley came to a halt, dropping his duffle bag on the floor. Then he stood still, staring at his toes.
Dr. Wesley reached out a hand to Carl. "I'm afraid we haven't had a very good week with Nicholas," he said. "He is demonstrating an amazing stubborn streak."
"Well," Carl replied, "we'll try to achieve better results for next week. I'm sorry, but it's slow going, you know."
The director of the home laughed that off. "Oh, we don't expect miracles from our mentors. We just appreciate your continued interest in the children." His casual tone betrayed the fact that he had said similar things many times before. He then stood quietly, waiting for Carl to assert authority over the boy.
When he spoke again, Carl dropped the casual, friendly tone he had used with the adults. He was not exactly mean, but very firm. "Nick, pick up your bag, now. It's time we got going." The boy looked at him with angry eyes, but then stooped and grabbed the bag. He said nothing, so Carl bid Dr. Wesley and the receptionist goodbye, and led the way out past the security guard with another wave.
He took the bag from the boy and placed it in the back seat of the Mustang, holding the door open. Nick had never shown the normal boyish enthusiasm for riding in such a great car, even the first time. Now he slumped into the passenger seat with a disinterested attitude. Carl buckled both of them in (Nick was too old for this but made no move to take care of himself) and then looked silently at the boy before firing up the car. "Nick," he said slowly and carefully, "You know that your attitude has to be better than this. Later on we have to have a talk about your behavior this week, but I would like to have a pleasant dinner with you, first. If you insist on maintaining this disrespectful silence, then we have to start out another way. You still have a chance, now use it!"
The V8 roared to life, and Carl pulled out onto the road. He tried to open conversation several times, but was met repeatedly with stony stoicism. At last he gave up, concentrating on the driving. Once again, he would have to take positive steps to adjust Nick's attitude when they got to his house. As he drove, he let his mind wonder back over the events that had led him to this road, this companion, and this way of life.
He had first heard of Dr. Wesley on a chat group five years ago. He had, like so many others, grown tired of reading stories and keeping an eye out for the few elusive images that could be found of his pet subject. He wished there were some way he could act out his fantasies, but as a single professional he couldn't really think of any scenario in which he could even work with children. He had been chatting on certain groups about that very problem when a buddy privately sent a link to him. It suggested that he call upon the Westside Children's Home, talk with the director there, and mention that he was interested in being a "special friend" of the institution.
At first he was wary, but this particular online pal had been around for a long time. He looked up the Westside Home, and found it to be a legitimate operation. Once an orphanage, the venerable institution had become one of the ubiquitous "group homes" in which foster children were interred until they reached maturity or there was no more room for them. He gathered from the official website that they were in desperate need of money; fund-raising was the primary concern. He could find no reference to "special friends," though, except on the private link.
After some days of hesitation he had at last called the private number he had been given, and he talked with Dr. Wesley for the first time. The director had wanted to know everything possible about him, and at length began to ask very pointed questions.
"Mr. Stimson, I need to know what sort of a chat room you were on when you got my number."
Carl hesitated just a second, then replied, "A spanking room."
"I'm sorry, but, specifically what sort of spanking?"
"It was, ah, a room to discuss the spanking of children."
"I see. And tell me, do you approve of actual, disciplinary spanking of children, or are you merely a fetishist?"
Carl had answered such questions in chat rooms before, but this was the first time he had spoken directly to someone about his interests. He was understandably nervous. "Well, ah, I, well, let me see...yes...yes, I guess I do...I do believe in it, if it's needed, you see." He would only find out later that his evident discomfiture was part of what convinced Dr. Wesley to take a chance with him.
"Mr. Stimson, you are aware that recent state law permits spanking in group homes? Yes, well, would you like to see just how that is carried out? You could come by this evening, and perhaps we could discuss "special friend" status for you while you're here.
That night had been the first time Carl saw the old stone house. He had been accompanied inside by the security guard, who waited while the receptionist paged Dr. Wesley. The director had greeted Carl with a big smile and ushered him back a hallway and into his office. There, surrounded by books, the two spoke for a few minutes about the difficulties of raising funds for charitable institutions ever since the state budget cutbacks. Carl was beginning to figure this out, and he decided that if he was offered the chance to pay to spank a child, he would take it.
A moment later another man entered without knocking. He was introduced as Mr. Lewis. His air of comfort made it clear that he was at home in the study. Shortly there was a knock on the door, and Mr. Lewis admitted a boy to the study. Kenny was a rather overweight eleven year old, and he had obviously been crying. Mr. Lewis took no more note of the men in the room, but retrieved a wooden paddle from behind the desk, directing Kenny to bend over and grab the far end of the desk.
Carl was a bit disappointed as Mr. Lewis stood next to the sobbing boy and lined up the paddle. He had hoped that "special friends" got to wield the paddle, but evidently he was only invited to watch. This would still be closer to an actual spanking than Carl had gotten in his adult life so far. He settled into his chair to watch, wishing that Kenny were a bit more attractive.
Mr. Lewis held the paddle in place for a moment, then drew back and whacked the boy with a mighty swat. Kenny jerked forward and howled. Four more times Mr. Lewis slammed the paddle into him. Carl was duly impressed with the force of the paddling.
When it was over, Dr. Wesley told Kenny he could return to his room, then thanked Mr. Lewis. "Come again soon, will you?"
Carl was confused, and as soon as Mr. Lewis left the room, he questioned the director: "You mean, Mr. Lewis isn't an employee here?"
Dr. Wesley smiled. "No. He is a "special friend." He made a "special" donation to our operating fund, and he also, coincidentally, helps us out with the boys whenever he can. You see, the state never really specified who could paddle children in our care, only that they could be paddled. A friend of mine, our mutual friend, actually, suggested this little solution to our cash flow problem. Behavior has improved, and so has our financial outlook. That is what "special friends" have meant to us here, Mr. Stimson. Do you understand, now?
Carl was elated, and anxious to get all the details, but the director interrupted. "Before we get to that, there is one thing you could help us with. Tonight we have more boys who have earned swats than we have friends coming in. Would you like to help us out? It will give you an idea how the program works, and we wouldn't expect a contribution from you tonight."
Of course there was no way Carl could say no to that, and he shifted anxiously in his seat while waiting for the boy to make his appearance. At length there was a knock, and Dr. Wesley admitted ten year old Trevor. The director had chosen well; Trevor was much more beautiful than Kenny, and Carl couldn't take his eyes off of him.
The paddle still lay on the desk, and the doctor put it into Carl's trembling hand. "Trevor here has been very bad today. He participated in the same fight as Kenny. You need to make certain his punishment is every bit as severe. Remember, though, five swats are the maximum."
Carl turned toward the pretty, blonde boy. He directed him to assume the position, and was rewarded with the sight of a beautiful boy-bottom stretched across the edge of the desk, filling his blue jeans nicely. Carl tapped the paddle lightly against the boy, then paused. He tried to gauge his swat to be as hard as those Mr. Lewis had administered. After the first swat, Trevor jerked forward and strangled back a cry. He was going to be braver than Kenny. Carl looked over to Dr. Wesley and got a reassuring nod. After that, he paddled the boy vigorously. Trevor was crying aloud when he stood, and he tried to hide his tear stained face. Carl couldn't resist tousling his hair.
The sales tactic was a sure winner. The feel of the paddle as it smaced into Trevor's bottom had been pure delight. Carl had enjoyed himself even more than he could have imagined, and he was eager to get all the details on the special friends program. The cost, as he found, was considerable for a few moments enjoyment, but men like Carl wait a lifetime not thinking they will ever get to participate in their favorite activity, and if they can, they pay what is needed. Carl had the money, and was determined to spend it here.
For the next year, he was on Dr. Wesley's special e-mail list, getting carefully coded e-mails twice a day, telling how many paddlings had been earned, and the name and age of the boy. The recipients could sign up for the boys they wanted to spank on a first come, first serve basis. They came to the home at whatever point in the evening was convenient for them, paid their fee to the receptionist, and were escorted into the study. Carl went on average two or three nights a week. Those visits became the highlight of his whole routine.
It was a great system, but it was bound to end sooner or later. Eventually a social worker found out about the program, and threatened a state investigation. The home had not actually violated the law, but the bad publicity of the investigation would sink them. Dr. Wesley was forced to curtail the program and search for a new means of income. Carl had known this was possible, but was nevertheless devastated. He hated going back to the stories and images, having no idea whether he would once more get to feel the crack of the paddle in his own hand.
The solution to both his and the doctor's problems came, ironically enough, in the form of a letter sent to the home by the same social worker. The state agencies were currently putting great faith in mentoring programs, and the worker suggested that Westside might get back into the good graces of the agencies by instituting such a program for its boys. This led to Dr. Wesley's second brainstorm.
This time, fundraising would be linked to mentoring, not discipline. He opened registration in a program called "Make a Difference." This program reached out for financial contributions, then sought to enlist the contributors as mentors for the boys. The state workers were dubious, suggesting that those who contributed money would consider their obligations to society paid. Dr. Wesley wrote a brilliant letter in reply, suggesting that the contributors would be glad to "protect their investments" by taking an active role in the lives of the children they were helping. To the great surprise of the state, the money came in, and even the wealthiest mentors really did seem to be spending time with the kids, often taking them home for the weekend.
Dr. Wesley, of course, was not surprised, since he had drawn his contributors from the ranks of the old "special friends." He had whispered to them of his new theory, never to be published to the state, that discipline is better carried out by someone close to the child, say, a committed mentor. Those who bought in and "volunteered" would have absolute authority over the boys while they were off the grounds. They would receive a full report of the week's misbehavior, which they could handle at their discression over the weekends, and they might occasionally be called upon during the week, as well. The program was an immediate success.
The size of Carl's donation got him first pick at the boys, and for three years he had been a mentor to John, a quiet, beautiful boy, just eight when the program commenced. Dr. Wesley had provided John with one of the paddles from the home, and he had also acquired a smaller paddle. Each week he had been given a list of John's trespasses, and most weeks he had found some cause to spank him. He also had the authority to discipline John for any misdeeds while at his house. He soon was in the habit of spanking John bare bottomed, and toward the end, he even whipped him with his belt a few times.
Of course, Carl was as insincere in his commitment to volunteer work as anyone else in the program, and he was only in it for the access it gave him to a pretty boy's bottom. Nevertheless, he never allowed himself to beat the boy too much, and Dr. Wesley had not needed to speak to him about restraint even once. To his amazement, as he spent time with John he found that he even liked being with him, and soon he was looking forward to the weekends. However, he regretted choosing his boy merely on the basis of looks, and wished he had taken one with more behavioral problems. He still enjoyed the spankings most of all.
Earlier that year, when John came up for adoption, he had begun to pay closer attention to the boys coming into the home. Sure enough, John was adopted, and his visits with Carl came to an end. John was amazingly affectionate when they said goodbye, hugging Carl and saying he never would have made it without him. Carl would miss the boy, but at the same time, he was excited about what lay ahead, for he had already met Nick.
Carl stole another glance at the sullen boy slouching in his passenger seat as the car sped along the freeway. He was incredibly beautiful, in the classic Asian pattern. He didn't look more than seven, with his tiny frame and his delicate features. Carl had noticed him immediately when he had been brought to the home. One night, as he was dropping John off, Carl saw the boy's first attempt at escape. It took the security guard and three other employees to chase him down. The guard only just laid hands on him before he escaped into the trees, and he had inflicted serious damage with his kicking while being dragged back to the house.
Carl went immediately to Dr. Wesley and asked if he might "reserve" Nick until they saw how John's adoption went. The director had never reserved a boy before, but after Carl increased his annual contribution on the spot, the deal was done. Two months later, after John had moved on, Carl began with Nick.
The boy was somewhat less skittish after his weeks in the home, but Carl knew that he would need to come down hard and fast on the boy if he had any hope of keeping control. He soon adopted his current routine: He would take Nick home and they would eat supper before addressing the discipline problems of the week. He insisted on a cheerful attitude, both at dinner and during the discussion. This rule was strictly enforced with preliminary spankings. One night he had to spank the boy three times before dinner and twice more before they finally finished talking about the week's difficulties. His record was ten spankings of one sort or another in one weekend. This time was working out much better on that front.
Amazingly, he found that his methods, designed to maximize his own pleasure, were having a desirable affect on the little boy. Once he managed to break through the sullen exterior, he was finding a wonderful kid underneath. Once again Carl was surprised to find himself enjoying the company of a young boy.
Carl turned off the freeway at an exit well outside the city, driving to his secluded house at the base of a forested hill. He was certain Nick had considered running away the first few times he was here, but there was really nowhere for him to go, and he knew it. Carl had seen to it that they had taken several tours of the region, both on foot and in his Bronco. Bringing the car to a stop inside the garage, he got out and grabbed Nick's duffle bag. The boy led the way inside.
"Alright, Nick, I gave you your chance, but you didn't want to be pleasant. You know what's coming. The boy didn't betray any change of heart, but slowly backed into a corner in the living room. Carl followed him there slowly, then, in one sudden move, he dropped the bag and grabbed the boy, dragging him across the floor to the couch. Nick was kicking and punching at him, but his resistance had grown somewhat more symbolic than real over the weeks. He knew he couldn't avoid what was coming. For the first few weeks, Carl had to toss him over the couch and hold him in place with a knee in his back. Now, however, he could sit down, take the boy over his knee, and do things more comfortably.
He adjusted the struggling boy as best as he could, then pulled down his pants and underpants. He always administered these preliminary spankings with his hand on the bare bottom, hoping that the slow intimacy of the act would penetrate the boy's rough exterior. The bottom which shone up at him was anything but rough. It was the color of slightly faded ivory, and Carl thought, not for the first time, that no sculpture in that medium had ever been more perfect.
Gripping tightly with his left hand, he began to smack Nick with his right hand hard and fast. Soon the ivory bottom was painted crimson, and his struggles were accompanied by loud, high pitched screams and oaths. Carl always refused to stop while Nick behaved so badly, so he persevered until his hand ached. Soon the curses were replaced with pleas, then quiet weeping. The struggling, though weaker, continued. Carl began to talk softly to the boy, still smacking him for all he was worth. "It's time to submit, buddy. Just stop fighting me." Eventually Nick lay limp over his lap, crying pathetically, but no longer demonstrating anger or resistance. After a few more smacks, the spanking was finished.
Nick had kicked his pants and shorts off, but he didn't look for them just yet. Instead he climbed into a kneeling position on Carl's lap, smothering his broken cries against the man's breast. The earlier attitude problem was no longer in evidence. Carl talked as soothingly as he could, all the while falling deeper in love with the beautiful young child who always emerged after a spanking. Nick apologized nicely for being so unpleasant, and soon the two were in the kitchen, preparing dinner together.
Throughout the meal, Nick chattered away about his week. Whenever he approached the topic of his misbehavior, Carl waved him off, saying, "Later, later." When the dishes were cleared away, the man retrieved the papers from his jacket, and together the two went into the living room again. Carl sat, while Nick stood in front of him. Nick knew that Carl wouldn't punish him for the week's trouble making while he was "in a mood." If necessary, he would beat the attitude out of him again before proceeding. Nick was learning fast, and he remained calm and quiet while Carl read through the list.
Eventually Carl laid the papers aside and shook his head in disappointment. "Nick, this is wretched. I don't know how you can behave so awfully. Don't you remember what we talked about last week, about self control?"
Nick tried to justify his actions, but Carl was having nothing of it. One by one, he addressed each incident on the list. It wasn't a pretty story, after all. Soon, the excuses were over, and it was time for Carl to pronounce sentence. "Nick, we talked last week about the possibility of your getting a more serious punishment, and, as much as I hate to do it, I'm going to have to whip you with the belt tonight."
Nick began to tear up. "How many?"
Carl was determined to make this first whipping memorable. He wouldn't keep himself to the six or eight hard swats he had given Nick with the big paddle. He was thinking more along the lines of what he had done with the little paddle, over the boy's bare bottom. "Twenty," he answered. That was the most he had ever given John. Nick was younger and much smaller, but also tougher. He thought the punishment was appropriate.
Nick burst into tears and began immediately to beg. "It's too much! Please don't whip me, I'll be good this week. You'll see, you can whip me next week if I'm not. Please, please!"
"I'm sorry, Nick, but I can't. There are three major episodes on this list, and a dozen lesser ones. I can't let you off easy. I would be letting down the home."
Nick stopped arguing, but he couldn't stop crying. He really wasn't showing that nasty attitude anymore, so Carl opened his arms to him. "I'm sorry I have to whip you," he said as he hugged the boy, "but I do have to, don't I?" For a few moments he held the boy in silence, rubbing his back and hoping to instill some courage. When he let him go, he directed him to go to the bathroom, then to report naked to his bedroom.
Carl hit the bathroom himself, then entered the room where John used to stay, now taken over by Nick. He piled some pillows on the edge of the bed, then took off his heavy, black belt. He decided not to double it over; he wanted more of a whipping motion. Instead he would wrap the buckle end around his hand a few times, leaving about two feet free to do the job.
By the time Nick came in, he was no longer whimpering, although the tears still stood out in his eyes. He looked pathetically vulnerable without his clothes. Carl laid the belt aside, and again he hugged Nick, pressing him close to his belly. Then he lifted the boy and lay him over the pillows. His torso was in front of the pillows, and consequently lower. The bottom jutted up nicely. His feet barely reached the floor, and he had to stand on tip toes. He was stretched into a perfect position, and Carl thought he was even prettier this way.
Wrapping the belt around his hand, Carl stood and positioned himself behind the boy. He grabbed Nick's bottom with his left hand, massaging it gently while he said, "You know I still love you, don't you?" Nick's hands were clasped over his head, and his face was pressed into the comforter. All Carl could hear was a little squeak in response. He released the boy's bottom and stepped to one side.
Carl twisted his body around and snapped it like a whip, adding to the motion of the belt. He was rewarded with a high pitched scream, as Nick lifted his head momentarily. He had learned his lesson well with John, and by now was an expert at whippings. He exulted as he looked down at the tiny body writhing in pain on the bed before him. His ears were tickled by the music of the screams. This was the sort of thing he used to dream of in those arid days before Westside.
At the same time, as he looked down at Nick, he was struck with how small and defenseless the little boy was. He began to pity the boy, though still enjoying himself immensely. After ten lashes, he discovered that he was slackening off a bit. After twelve, he stopped altogether. Nick continued to sob and writhe on the bed until he touched his shoulder. Nick rolled over and looked up in confusion.
"Are you done?" he asked.
"I think you've had enough."
Carl sat on the bed and once more drew the little boy into his arms. He rocked him and whispered comforting words until the crying stopped. When it did, he looked and found that the child had dropped off to sleep. He rose carefully and laid Nick on the bed. He opened the duffle bag and found pajamas, which he tenderly slipped onto the sleeping boy. Finally, he tucked him into bed, kissing him before he left.
Later on, in his own bed, Carl mused over what was happening to him. Was it possible that he was growing soft? Never before had he relaxed any punishment which he had promised. Why had he not finished the whipping? He had been enjoying himself so much! Oh well. He rolled over. No doubt he would have a chance to paddle the little scoundrel tomorrow. Next time he wouldn't be so nice. His thoughts were disturbed by an unfamiliar sound, and he looked up to see Nick standing next to his bed.
"What's the matter, buddy?"
"I want to sleep in here tonight. Can I?"
Carl had made the rule on Nick's first visit that once he was in bed, he could only get up to go to the bathroom or if he was sick. He had punished him twice for this on the first visit. He thought about sending Nick downstairs to retrieve the little paddle. It even occurred to him that he could take this as proof that he had been too lenient, and he could resume the whipping.
After a moment he lifted the cover of the bed spread and nodded. Nick hopped in and immediately snuggled up to him. As he reclined again on the pillow, his arms full of the boy, he resumed his reverie. Tomorrow, he told himself, I'll be tough. His hand slipped down to gently pat and caress the sleeping boy's bottom. Tomorrow. Sure.