CHAPTER SIX

After the incident on Friday afternoon, Williamson ordered Barron to remain without pants all weekend. The sole exception of course was Sunday school and church. For this occasion he had Barron wear a custom tailored three-piece suit woolen suit of red Scotch plaid design: matching jacket, vest, and short pants with white kneesocks. A handful of other boys Boyd's age were dressed similarly, but few other boys in Barron's class wore suits, and no one else wore shorts. Barron's outfit, which his mother thought "gentlemanly" and "elegant," his classmates ridiculed as "stupid," "sissified," and worse.

Barron hated it fiercely. Still, he felt sorry to have to hang it up in his closet as soon as the family returned from church. In the past standing or sitting in his white dress shirt, silk tie, kneesocks, leather shoes and jockey briefs had always been a temporary situation just before putting on or just after taking off the pants to his Sunday suit. Now this was how he was expected to go around for the rest of the day, even when he ate dinner and supper!

Dinner....what a nightmare! On this occasion it was no honor that Barron was seated directly to the right of his father. Pete Williamson had eagle eyes, no patience, a long reach and a deadly right palm, which descended with merciless and unerring accuracy to smack the completely exposed skin of Barron's left thigh if the boy so much as whined or made a face at the table during dinner.

Just when Barron thought things could get no worse, the doorbell rang and Phillip announced:

"It's Basil."

Basil Smithfield, their twenty-four-year-old neighbor was a writer and broadcaster on local public television. Next week he was hosting a fundraising program for the hospital where Williamson practiced medicine. Courtesy as well as concern for accuracy of information prompted Smithfield to share the script with his neighbor the respected surgeon.

As the two men perused the script for the program Williamson asked Basil whether he would like some coffee. When Smithfield indicvated that he would, Williamson directed Barron to go fetch it. Grimacing, but without comment, Barron did.

As Barron rose to go to the kitchen his state of dress became obvious to the guest. Not knowing the family dynamics and intending nothing more than harmless levity, when Barron had brought his coffee. Smithfield remarked, "Well, Barron, other than that tie, you look as though you're keeping cool this summer!"

Imprudently, Barron retorted: "You mind your own business!"

In an instant Williamson had seized Barron by both shoulders and, livid, was shouting at him:

"How dare you talk that way to an adult! To a guest in our home! Now you're in for it!"

In a trice Barron had been turned over his father's knee. The big hand delivered three mighty slaps across the seat of Barron's Hanes underpants before pausing to pull them down and deliver the rest of the spanking on the boy's bare bottom.

"OW! OW! OW! WAAHH! Daddy, Mr. Smithfiels, I'm sorry! OW!" Barron begged between smacks but to no avail before his father had finished giving his little behind the soundest of spankings.

Afterwards Barron was commanded to stand both with his face in a corner of the dining room and with his briefs kept down in the rear in a "ledgie" for the next hour as an added incentive not to forget his manners. During this hour while Williamson and his neighbor were checking the papers, the doorbell rang again. This time it was Russell. He had come to show Barron the new Polaroid SX-70 camera that he had managed to buy with his savings.

Told that Barron was being punished and therefore was unavailable to play right now, Russell did the typical thing for a boy his age. Rather than going home at once he persisted in spending some time visiting--or attempting to visit--with the older and younger siblings. However, Phillip had no time for nor interest in Russell and the toys and prattle of five-year-old Boyd soon wore very thin for Russell. However, the perfunctory effort to visit with the other boys had removed Russell from the attention sphere of the men in the dining room.

Thus as he returned to that room on his way to the front door It was with infinite satisfaction that he spied the pantless Barron, still standing tall with his nose in the corner, his white jockey briefs lowered in the rear, and his flaming pink bottomcheeks on display. In an instant Russell had aimed and pressed the famous "one-step" button.

"Gotcha!" he declared with his mischievous grin. The click and electronic flash were unmistakable. In its thoroughly revealed and freshly spanked state Barron's posterior was now preserved for posterity in living color!

CHAPTER SEVEN

Barron hated being treated like a little kid. After all, here he was, nine-and-a-half and finishing the fourth grade. So why didn't his parents realize this?

Here, when they had company for lunch, he had to eat in the kitchen with his five-year-old brother Boyd, a real baby! Why, his brother Phillip, was just twelve, less than three years older than Barron, and he got to sit with Annie and their aunt and uncle and their parents. Only, today Annie was out on a date, so there was even an empty chair at the table. ("I should be sitting there right now!" Barron thought resentfully. "I probably would be, too, if it weren't for this little brat!") But, no, his mother had told him: "We don't have room for everybody at the table. So you have to eat lunch in the kitchen with Boyd and keep him company."

And Boyd was such a little twerp, always doing something stupid or gross. There he was now, spitting out a whole mouthful of sweet potatoes all over his plate!

"What's the matter with you?" Barron demanded.

"I thought they were carrots," Boyd pouted. "I hate sweet potatoes!"

"Well, don't spit them out at the table, stupid! That's gross!"

"I will if I want to, and you better not call me stupid!"

"Why not?"

"'Cause I'll tell!"

"Well, you are!"

"Mommy!" Boyd called faintly in a tone more likely to threaten his brother than to attract his mother's attention.

Now Barron really lost his temper. "Shut up, you little turd!" he hissed, hurling his corn muffin at his little brother's forehead. The missile struck its intended target. Boyd's ordinarily beautiful doll-like face grew contorted with pain and anger, and he started crying loudly.

Barron shook his fist and warned:"You better quit being a crybaby!"

"Mommee!" Boyd bawled at full volume, and in his aggravation he accidentally knocked over his milk, spilling most of it into his lap and onto the floor.

Immediately Pete stormed into the kitchen, quickly followed by Beverley.

"Jesus H. Christ! What the hell's going on in here!" Pete demanded.

"Oh, Lord! What a mess!" their mother exclaimed.

"Mommy! Daddy! Barron hit me with his cornbread and made me spill my milk! And he called me that word again!" Boyd wailed.

"Well, he was actin' like a brat and spittin' his food all over the place, and wouldn't quit when I asked him to mind his manners!" Barron countered. "It's his fault too!"

"All right, quiet!" Williamson commanded. "I don't care who started it: you're both at fault, and I'm going to finish it. You're both going to get your bottoms blistered good and proper for this!"

"Your father's right! Just look at this mess you've made! Shame on you both!" Mrs. Williamson chipped in.

To this her husband responded:"Right! You take care of Boyd; I'll take care of Barron. It takes a man's hand for him these days!"

Turning to Boyd, his mother said:"First let's get these wet clothes off you....Hmm, shirt still dry, so we can leave that on, but everything else down to your socks has to go."

"No, please, Mommy, don't spank my bare bottom!" Boyd begged as he felt his nether parts exposed. His pleas were quite ignored, and in short order Beverley Williamson soon had her youngest child half-naked (and exposing his lower body actually made Boyd feel more "naked" than being totally naked), and firmly held in place over her knee, where she dealt his tender little bottom a good fifteen hard smacks, each of which made Boyd kick his little legs in pain and protest, cry loudly, and beg for mercy.

Barron, being older, was more truculent, much to his own undoing!

"This time you really need a good spanking that you'll remember, and you're going to get one, too!" his father declared. "Take off your pants."

"No, Daddy! I'm a big boy now!" Barron half-asserted, half-pleaded. "Don't spank me that way!"

Not the least bit impressed and more than slightly angered by this reluctance bordering on defiance, Pete demanded louder and more fiercely: "Boy, you heard what I said: Get those pants off!"

Barron looked down at the front of his pale yellow shirt and beltless dark-green shorts. For a second he reached for the clasp at the front of his pants, then thrust his arms down at his sides and answered resolutely: "No! I won't!"

He turned to run as soon as he saw his father's enraged expression, but he was not quick enough. In an instant his father's powerful hands had seized him. Barron felt his shorts torn open so violently that the fasteners were ripped away. Both his shorts and his jockey underpants were then slid down his legs, over his shoes, and off completely. He was then turned over his father's knee with his arms and legs pinned down so that he could not protect his bottom in any way or ward off any of the powerful smacks that he was about to receive. Barron was terribly afraid that this spanking would be unusually long and hard.

It was. His father's big hand struck Barron's smooth, round, soft, white, clean little bottomcheeks with great, resounding, and terribly painful force, each time evoking some audible response from the furious but helpless little boy, each time reddening Barron's bottom a shade more than it had been an instant before.

SMACK! — "OWW!"

SMACK! -- "OWW!"

SMACK! -- "OWW!"

SMACK! -- "WAAHHH!"

SMACK! -- "WAAHHH! OH, PLEASE STOP, DADDY!"

SMACK! -- "WAAHHH!"

SMACK! -- "OW! Daddy I'm so sorry! I'll be the best boy you ever saw!"

Williamson desisted for a minute. "Indeed?" he asked. "And just how sorry are you?"

But of course he saw no reason for a potentially effective communication of dialogue between ears and vocal chords to interrupt or replace this unquestionably effective dialogue between man's open palm and little boy's bare bottom:

SMACK! --"OWW! Daddy. I'm VERY sorry!"

SMACK! -- "Waahh! I'll be a good boy from now on!"

SMACK! --""WAAAHHH! I'll be good to Boyd! I promise!"

SMACK! -- "I'll do anything you say! WAAAHHH!"

SMACK! -- "WWWAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Suddenly it was over, and his father had set Barron on his feet again. For a moment or so there was near-silence in the room as Barron stood shuddering and crying softly, clutching his bottom with both hands in an effort to exorcise the pain. When he had managed to regain some degree of composure, his first act was to attempt to put his clothes on again. To his surprise and added chagrin, his father stopped him when he reached for his underpants.

"No!" Pete declared. "You stay just the way you are--for the next fifteen minutes."

"Please, Daddy, I can't do anything or go anywhere like this!"

"Oh, yes, you can," Pete corrected him.: "Do you see Boyd standing over there in the corner with his face to the wall?"

"Yes, sir," Barron answered miserably.

"Well, you can just march yourself over to the opposite corner and sit your little bare butt down on that wooden stool, and stay there for the next fifteen minutes, without moving. Now, march!" he concluded , sending Barron off in that direction with an additional smack on the rear.

"Ow!" Barron exclaimed. Then, after endeavoring to follow his father's orders, he complained:

"Daddy! I can't stay on the stool! It's so hard, and my bottom is so sore! I just can't keep sitting on it!"

The response was immediate and unwavering: "Yes, you can, and you will--unless you want another spanking. Do you?"

"No, Daddy! I'll do just what you say! Oh! Oo! Oh! Oo! Oh!" Barron whined as he gingerly settled his stinging little bottom down on the hard, painted planks of the stool. He hadn't been told to face the corner, but he did so anyway, feeling that it would be just too embarrassing to have to face anyone who might happen to come into or through the kitchen and see him in his present condition.

And of course someone did, since his aunt and uncle needed to pass through the kitchen to get to their car parked in the back drive, and to collect some of their belongings on the back porch. For whatever reason--politeness, consideration, embarrassment.... who knows?--Aunt and Uncle said nothing to the two boys on their way out. Not so, however, their brother Phillip, who was going with their relatives to a movie matinee. Lagging behind for a moment until all the adults had passed out of earshot, he sang out with mocking sweetness:

"My, my! What do we have here? Looks like the Red-Butt Revue! I thought I was going through the kitchen, but looking at all these hot buns, I think I must have wound up in the bakery!"

"You just shut up and get out of here!" Barron shouted at his older brother in rage.

"Oh! Temper, temper!" Phillip admonished Barron gleefully. "Better mind your manners! Remember, that's what got you in trouble in the first place!" With that he departed.

"This is so embarrassing!" Barron thought to himself, looking down at his bare legs, feeling the hard, sticky surface of the wooden stool under his still bare and still exquisitely sore little boy-bottom, and using his thighs and shirttail to cover his little hairless _d_i_c_k_ and tight little nuts. Barron knew, or thought he remembered that Phillip had not been spanked on the bare bottom since the age of eight. So why was he, Barron, at nine, still treated like such a little kid?

Fifteen minutes had passed. Boyd had been allowed to leave the corner and even had been sent to take a bath and put on clean clothes. He was going to his friend Robby's birthday party, and Beverley was going to drive him there on the way to her Saturday afternoon bingo circle. Barron's heart sank at the thought that he was going to be left alone here with his father, such a big, powerful, sullen man, who might do anything to him, as angry as he was right now!

"Please, Daddy, can I get up now?" Barron asked plaintively.

"Not yet!" Williamson called out gruffly from his workshop in the utility room adjacent to the kitchen.

"But, Daddy, it's been more than fifteen minutes!"

"Well, what if it has?"

"This stool's awful hard on my bottom, Daddy!"

"That's too bad! It's not supposed to feel good!"

"But when can I get up?"

"When I say you can."

"But when will that be?"

"It might be soon if you quit pestering me; it might be a long time if you don't!"

"Oh.'

After what seemed an eternity to Barron, but chronologically could not have spanned more than twenty minutes, his father finally appeared in the doorway and, seeing Barron sitting dutifully, albeit still quite uncomfortably, on the little stool, declared at long last:

"All right, son, you may get up now."

Barron of course lost no time in doing so. assuming that his punishment was now over, he immediately started getting dressed again, pulling on his clean, almost new white cotton jockey briefs. Reaching for his pants, however, he was stunned to hear his father call out:"Hold it! You aren't putting pants on again today, not those or any others!"

"But, Daddy, why not?" Barron begged incredulously.

"Because you defied me about taking them off. Since you didn't take them off when I told you to, then by golly you aren't going to put them back on until I say you can. Yessir, you just got too big for your britches, and I think the best way to cut you back down to size is to have you go around without them for a while."

"Oh, well," Barron thought to himself alone up in his room, "it isn't all that bad: it's better than sending me to bed or not letting me watch TV." Then, as he read a comic and listened to the radio, he consoled himself with one other thought: "At least no one will see me like this!"

He thought nothing of it when he heard the telephone ring-- until he heard his father come in a few minutes later to announce:"That was Sears. That drill I ordered special has come in. I have to pick it up at will-call. Come on, let's go!"

"Sure, Daddy, as soon as I put some pants on."

"You're coming with me just as you are, Barron," Williamson informed the boy. I said no pants for you the rest of the day, and I mean it!"

"Can't I just stay here in the car?" Barron asked hopefully as his father pulled the car up into a space in the huge Sears parking lot.

"No. You stay with me," his father declared firmly.

Although it was a warm late-spring afternoon, and Barron had often gone into stores while wearing swimming trunks no less revealing than what he wore today, nevertheless, as Barron traversed the parking lot and entered the large Sears Roebuck store, he felt almost as cold and as unutterably embarrassed as if he had actually been naked. Here he was, nine years old, and being led by the hand by his father, like a little kid, and like only a kid under six, he was dressed in a shirt, socks, and shoes, but instead of proper pants, he was just wearing white jockey underpants which did almost as much to show his bottom and other parts as they did to cover them!

And to Barron's surprise and chagrin, he was not the only one so attired in the store: Indeed, that afternoon at Sears he actually saw three or four other little boys walking or standing around in their shirts and underpants! One, however, was simply in the process of trying on different pants, since his parents were in a hurry and the dressing rooms were occupied. In the other instances, Barron's misery did not at all love the company--some three-or-four-year-old white trash brats whose parents let them run around like that all the time! To Barron. whose family had certain pretensions to social eminence, it was all too humiliating for words! His only remaining hopes were that he might get out of here in a hurry and not be seen by anyone who knew him!

Both hopes proved forlorn. As usual on Saturdays, there was a long line at will-call. When his father drew tab #97, Barron groaned, almost in tears:"Oh, no! It'll take forever!"

"You just be quiet! Stand still and behave yourself!" his father warned him.

Williamson did at least give Barron permission to go to the water fountain. There his last hope was dashed. For, as he was bending over to take his third good long drink. he felt someone pinch him hard on the left buttock.

"Ow!" he cried out. Spluttering and nearly choking, he turned around, only to see John and Russell, neighbors and schoolmates of his.

"Whoo-woo! Doesn't he look _s_e_x_y! That must be the latest spring fashion!" they taunted him.

("Just wait 'til I'm eighteen!" Barron thought furiously. "My stupid old fart of a father's never going to see me again!")

Aloud to them he yelled, nearly beside himself with rage and embarrassment:"Quit, dammit!"

"Oh, you said a bad word!" they continued taunting him. Good little boys aren't supposed to use that kind of language!"

"Oh, shut up, you creeps!" Barron shot back. "I'm no littler than you. You don't think I'm goin' around like this because I want to, do you?"

"What do you mean?" John asked. "Nobody could make me go around like that in public!"

(Russell. knowing better from his own experience, made no such rash presumption.)

"You wouldn't be saying that if you had my Dad for your father," Barron explained glumly. "It's one of his favorite ways of punishing me!"

"You mean, he makes you take your pants off and go around without them?" eleven-year-old, John asked with a glint of cruel excitement in his otherwise beautiful brown eyes. "For how long?"

"The rest of the day, the weekend, who knows?" Barron sighed.

"Gaah! How embarrassing! Does he do anything else to you?"

"Uh-uh!" Barron lied, shaking his head.

"Yes, he does, too!" Russell could not resist interposing. "I've seen him give Barron a spanking on the bare bottom, right in front of Basil and me! I've even got a Polaroid of his butt afterward, If you want to see it, I'll show it to you when we get back to my house. If you want, I'll even trade it with you for that picture you took of your big sister in the bathtub! I'm serious!"

John's face looked totally dazed, his eyes glazed. "Oh, Wow!" was all he could say.

"Russell! You wouldn't!" Barron cried in mortification.

"Well, maybe not--if you do what I say!" Russell hinted.

"What do you mean?" Barron asked.

"We'll talk it over tonight or tomorrow," Russell answered.

"Oh!" Barron was content to let the matter drop for now. Tired of this embarrassing encounter. he turned away from his two young neighbors and resumed his position at the water fountain.

That was definitely a mistake. No sooner was the unsuspecting Barron bent over, than John's nimble hands grabbed the elastic waistband to Barron's underpants and pulled them down in the rear, exposing all of Barron's reddened behind to the gaze of dozens, maybe hundreds of people. Barron of course instantly pulled his briefs up again, but the damage was done: half the people in town had seen his bare, spanked bottom!

"_d_a_m_n_ you to hell!" Barron screamed, turning to hit John and Russell.

To his unutterable chagrin, John and Russell had disappeared, and only a few feet away stood--oh, no!-- his father.

"What do you mean, using that kind of language to me!" Williamson scowled ominously.

"I....I'm sorry....I wasn't saying it to you, sir!"

"John and Russell were here just now making trouble, I swear!"

"You needn't bother. You've obviously done enough of that already today! Can't you stay out of trouble for fifteen minutes? Well, I've got my drill. Let's go home. I don't know what it's going to take to straighten you out and make you behave, but I promise you one thing: When we get home, I'm going to try everything on you until I find out what works!"

And, unfortunately, Barron knew beyond a doubt, that his father would do just that.

CHAPTER EIGHT

All the way home from Sears, Barron was as quiet as a mouse, hoping that his father's sullen displeasure would pass. It did not.

Their car pulled up in the front driveway. Couldn't his Daddy at least take it into the carport, where Barron could make a quick dash into the house? Or to the back yard, which was enclosed by fences and hedges, so that no one would see Barron in his embarrassing state? If he had to be walking from the car to the house without pants, wouldn't Daddy at least bring the car to the carport or the back yard?

No. Williamson stopped the car and turned off the engine right between the street and the house. Anyone outside on this side of the block could see Barron and his father when they stepped out of the car.

"Please, Daddy," Barron ventured to ask,"could we drive to the carport or the back yard?"

"We could," his father answered,"but we won't. We're getting out right here."

"Please, Daddy! I'm in my underpants, remember?"

"Of course I remember. I thought you had forgotten, the way you were sounding off so big and bad at Sears! How come you're still too big for your britches even when you aren't wearing any?"

"But I said those rude words to John and Russell, not to you, Daddy!"

"You shouldn't have said them at all!"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Now get out of the car."

"Please, Daddy, don't let the whole neighborhood see me in my underpants!"

"Why should that bother you? After all, the people at Sears all saw you like that."

"But, Daddy, except for John and Russell, all those people were strangers. All these people know us. If they see me without pants on, they'll never let me forget it!"

Hearing that, Williamson smiles in satisfaction: So, the punishment he had prescribed for Barron was working after all! However, one more touch was needed!

"Maybe you shouldn't forget it," he said cryptically, then with finality:"Come on, out of the car!"

Knowing that all safe avenues of resistance had been exhausted. Barron obeyed. As he stepped out of the car, he pulled up his white socks to his knees and tried to pull his shirttail to cover his white jockey underpants. The latter did not work, however. As soon as Barron had taken a few steps, the shirt slid upward, leaving the lower few inches of Barron's white cotton briefs visible in front and all the seat in back. Blushing furiously, Barron started off toward the house. only to be called back immediately by his father.

"Barron! Come here to me right now!"

"Yes, Daddy," Barron answered dejectedly as he approached his father. "What is it?"

"Here's what," his father declared. Williamson stood by the peach tree and was putting his folding knife back into his pants pocket. He had just cut and was now holding the biggest switch Barron had ever seen!

"Come on, he told the boy. "We're going for a walk around the block."

"Oh, no! Daddy, please! We can't do that! Everyone will see me in my underpants!"

"That's the general idea."

"But what will I say if anyone asks me why I'm out walking around like this?"

"Just tell them that you got too big for your britches, so you have to go without them for a while! Those exact words, understand? Or else....Well, you see what I have in my hand?"

"I understand, Daddy," Barron said glumly.

By now the sun was setting. The first person that they met on their walk was fat old Mr. Parker, who lived two doors down the street from the Williamsons. Like Barron's father, he was wearing a short-sleeved cotton shirt, corduroy slacks, nylon socks and leather shoes.

"Evening, Pete. Hello, Barron," he greeted them from his porch.

"Evening, Charlie. " "Hello, Mr. Parker," they answered him. Then Williamson nudged Barron. "Let's go see him!" he told his son.

"Hot enough for you today?" Parker asked when they had joined him on the porch.

"Yeah, it's pretty warm," Williamson returned the inanity.

"Looks like Barron knows how to beat the heat, though!" Mr. Parker added with a wink. "'Course, if I was Barron, I'd get rid of my shirt as well! Lucky kids! Pete, you or I would get arrested if we went around like that, even as hot as it is!"

"Nice idea, Charlie," said Williamson,"but Barron hasn't shucked his pants because of the heat. Tell Mr. Parker why you're going around in your shirt and underpants, son."

Blushing to his ears, Barron stated woodenly: "I got too big for my britches, so I have to go around without them for a while."

"Did you get a spanking too?" Mr. Parker asked.

Barron just blushed and looked down in silence.

"Tell Mr. Parker all what you got for picking on Boyd," Williamson commanded.

In a monotone Barron responded:"I got a hard spanking on my bare bottom, and then I had to sit for an hour on a hard wooden stool. Then Daddy let me put my underpants back on but made me leave my pants off. So I have to run around like this until Daddy says I can wear pants again."

"Well, son," said Parker,"that sure must have taken the wind out of your sails."

"We'll see," said Barron's father. "Well, we have to be on our way."

Barron's heart sank when he saw whom they were about to encounter next: old Mr. Mitchell and young Basil Smithfield. These two neighbors stood talking on Mitchell's front walk near the sidewalk. Last night Barron and his friend Eddie had had great fun playing "ring-and-run" with the doorbells in the neighborhood--especially with Basil's and Mr. Mitchell's doorbells. Also, Barron had thrown rotten apples at Mr. Mitchell when he had chased them. It had been great fun at the time. Now....

"Hello, Pete!" both men greeted Williamson, who in turn nodded and spoke to them.

"Well, Barron," Basil greeted him cheerfully,"what happened to you ? Did they beat the pants off your soccer team today?"

"Ha1 Ha! Very funny!" Barron replied sarcastically.

At once Williamson seized Barron by the arm: "What do you mean, talking to an adult like that! You apologize to Basil right this minute!"

"I....I'm sorry, Basil! I didn't mean it!" Barron stammered. At least the trepidation in his voice was sincere.

"Like he didn't mean to ring our doorbell and run away, or to throw rotten apples at me last night!" Mr. Mitchell interjected with a smug grin.

"What's this, Barron?" his father demanded. "You better tell me the gospel truth!"

Very pale and cowed, Barron answered: "Yes, sir, I did it. But it was Eddie's idea!"

"I don't care whose idea it was. The point is, you did it and you admit it. Good! So you can take the consequences right here and now, in front of Basil and Mr. Mitchell. Grab that lamp post with both hands, and don't let go until I tell you."

"Please, Daddy," Barron pleaded,"please don't whip me right out here on the street!"

"This is where you misbehaved; this is where you will be punished," his father reasoned.

As Barron wrapped his thin little arms around the concrete lamp post, he experienced another shock: he felt his snug white cotton briefs being pulled down in the rear by his father's big, hairy hands.

"Oh, no! Daddy, please!" Barron begged. "Not with my underpants down! Don't whip me on the bare bottom!"

"Hush, Barron!" his father ordered. "You don't think I'm going to risk tearing up a brand new pair of underpants with this switch, do you? Of course I'm going to give you this whipping on the bare bottom!

"See, John and Basil," Williamson continued, indicating the pinkness still visible on both Barron's bottomcheeks from the earlier correction that day. "I try to straighten this boy out, but I guess it takes more effort than I thought,--like a strong rod instead of a strong hand!"

WHIP! WHIP! WHIP! The switch came down, seven times in all on Barron's exposed little-boy bottomcheeks.

"OW! OW! OWWW!" Barron wailed over and over, and his slender little legs danced in pain, but he dared not risk provoking his father to greater anger by letting go of the lamp post or trying to cover his bottom with his hands. Now there were seven fine red lines across the two tender pink hemispheres.

"Well, gentlemen," said to John Mitchell and Basil Smithfield,"do you think that's enough to teach Barron his lesson?"

"Let's see," said Basil. "Easy, Barron," he remarked gently as he approached him and laid his right hand gingerly on the little boy's smart-ing buttocks.

"Wow!" Basil exclaimed softly. "His bottom's really hot! I think Barron's had enough!"

However, Mitchell thought otherwise. "Nonsense!" he declared. "I whipped my son that much when he was a baby! If it was my boy, I'd give him a few more hot ones for what he did last night!"

"Here," Williamson declared, handing Mitchell the switch:"Be my guest! Lay it on him!"

"OW! OW! OW-WOW!" Barron wailed as Mitchell brought the switch down in three of the hardest licks the boy had ever received in all his young life. Tears were streaming down Barron's face, and now he leaned limply against the post and bawled without restraint. Three raised red welts now appeared on Barron's bottom. It would take weeks for them to go away entirely.

"All right, Barron," said his father,"now that you've been punished, I'm sure Mr. Mitchell will accept your apology,"

Wondering why he still had to apologize after having had his bottom savaged, but not daring to defy his father now, Barron meekly stated:

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mitchell. I'll never do it again!"

"That's good, Barron," the man acknowledged.

"And what do you say to Basil?"

"I'm sorry I rang your doorbell and ran," Barron said.

"It's all right," replied Basil, "Next time stick around and you might be pleasantly surprised."

Then Mitchell and Basil went back to discussing whatever they had been talking about before Barron and his father had come by. Turning to his father now, Barron begged:

"Please, Daddy, may I pull up my underpants now?"

"No," Williamson answered,"leave them down in the rear the way they are now, until we get home. Even then I'll have to think about it."

"Aren't we going home now?" Barron asked.

"No. Let's finish our walk first."

"Around the whole block?"

"Of course."

"But, Daddy, everyone will see me with my bottom bared!"

"That's right."

"You mean, you want them to?"

"Not especially, but when they see you like that and your marks of chastisement, then they'll know that I'm not raising my son to be a juvenile delinquent."

And so they finished their walk around the block, Barron still with no pants on, with his underpants pulled down in the rear, and his bare, whipped bottom exposed to everyone's view.

And in a way Barron's father was right: No one who saw them that night thought he was raising his son to be a juvenile delinquent. By and large the consensus of neighborhood opinion could be summarized of one Mrs. Thompson:

"God! If Pete Williamson ever had a mind, I'm certain now that he's completely lost it!"

(To be continued)