"Use the bathroom before you go out."

How many times had I heard that old litany in my life? My parents seemed to be fanatics on the subject. You'd have thought that by now they would be over reminding us kids about going to the toilet every time we left the house. After all, my sisters were almost grown up and I was pretty big for my thirteen years. Certainly too big to be reminded like I was a baby in diapers.

Before the morning was over, though, I would wish I had paid a little more attention to their constant haranguing. It was a Saturday morning, and, as usual, I had slept late. So late, in fact, that I was going to be late for my weekly baseball game with the guys. We had a standing game going with another bunch of guys, and since there were only seven of us, it was important that everyone show up on time.

I jumped out of bed, pulled on my shorts and sneakers, raced downstairs and streaked out of the house.

"Don't forget..." But the last words were lost as the screen door slammed behind me.

The vacant lot where we played was only six blocks away, and I usually made it in five minutes at a run. today was no exception. As I rounded the last corner, I saw that our side was up at bat, so being a few minutes late hadn't really made much difference. Nevertheless, I had to put up with a lot of ribbing from the guys since I was almost always late for every game.

With two outs gone and two strikes away, it didn't take more than a minute after my arrival before we were taking the field. I played left field, and as I was trotting out to my position, I felt a sudden twinge in my gut that told me I should have taken the extra minute or two necessary that my parents were always harping about. Oh well, I thought, just clamp the old asshole shut tight and hang on. It wasn't the first time I had felt the urge while out of the house, and always before I had managed to hold it in until I got home.

This time was a little different. The urge just would not go away. As long as I was out in the field, and able to concentrate on holding it back, it wasn't so bad. But when our turn finally came to bat, I could tell that I was in for a Herculean task. As I hunkered down with the guys to wait my turn at bat, a large fart made its way into the world and assaulted my friends' noses. No one said anything since no one was sure just who had let it loose. But I wasn't about to take any more chances like that, and I stood up and sauntered a little ways downwind. the minutes seemed to drag by, and my discomfort seemed to increase with every second. Finally, it was my turn at bat. As I came to the plate, another fart let go, ad the catcher gave me one hell of a dirty look.

"Phew! Whatcha tryin' to do? Scare the ball away?"

"Just shut up and tell him to pitch it in."

On the second pitch I hit a long ball out to the alley which was an automatic three-bagger by our local rules. As I trotted out to third base, I began to receive signals from my rectum that I was not going to make it. Worse, I was beginning to get signals from another area that liquid was about to flow. Just to make matters complete, my prick was beginning to stiffen up with the effort, and I was afraid that the bulge would begin to show through the front of my shorts. A hard-on at the age of thirteen isn't all that unusual, but when the others see that you have one, the crude remarks can go on for what seems like hours.

The next batter struck out, and since it was the third, I didn't have to face running to home plate and into the midst of the guys. But as turned to run out to left field, what I had felt to be another fart turned out to be the tip of a turd trying to push its way out. Oh no, you don't, I thought, as I sucked it back in as hard as I could. You're not going to make a fool of me in front of all my friends.

Just as I thought I had the situation in back under control, I felt a little trickle of piss pass through the tip of my _c_o_c_k_. I managed to stop that little bit of treason, but when I looked down, I saw that I hadn't been quick enough and a spot about the size of a dime was showing on the front of my shorts.

Finally I realized that there was no way that I was going to be able to hold in both ends until the game was over. And I couldn't, I just couldn't _s_h_i_t_ my pants in front of my best friends.

With a shouted excuse about some imaginary chore or other that I had left undone at home, I waved goodbye to the guys and took off like a bat out of hell for home.

Six blocks in five minutes. I could make it. I knew I could.

Unfortunately, both my bladder and bowels were giving me a stiff argument over the matter, and before the first block was gone, that stubborn turd started to push its way. Trying as hard as I could to keep it in, it seemed to have will of its own. Slowly, it forced its way out all during the second block and rolled up and down between my asscheeks. It was one of those mile-long turds that you get when you haven't taken a crap for two or three days. Thick and hard at the start and soft and mushy at the end. From later experiences I would be able to liken it to being _f_u_c_k_ed from the inside out. But at the moment I was so embarrassed that I was almost ready to cry. The turd ended its exit with a rush, curling around itself in my underpants then breaking off, leaving the softer part to grind itself into mush between my churning buttocks while the harder part bounced up and down against my ass.

Worse yet, now that No. 2 was done, my stiff prick signaled that No. 1 was ready to let go. And with a gush, it did. Suddenly the front of my shorts became sopping wet and the piss began to run down my legs and into my shoes. Pissing your pants gives you all sorts of sensations, not all of them unpleasant, as the warm liquid passes over your balls and down your crotch. But when it hits your bare legs with the air rushing by them, it can get a little chilly.

Embarrassed, ashamed, humiliated. All these and more. It was only luck that none of our neighbors happened to be out of their houses as I passed by. I couldn't stand the thought of anybody else seeing me in my wet and smelly shorts.

Then I began to think about what I would do when I got home. Mom would be in the kitchen. Dad, who usually slept late on Saturdays, would be in the dining room drinking his endless cups of coffee while reading his newspaper. My sisters were an unknown factor, but I was pretty sure that I could slip into the house through the garage and down to the basement where we had a small bathroom with a shower. If I could just make it down there, then I could appear upstairs with a towel around me and some story about how I had gotten dirty at the game and wanted to clean up before tracking it into the house.

At last the house was in sight. I ran up the driveway and into the garage. And then I stopped dead in my tracks. There was my father sitting on a small bench in the back of the garage working on some part out of the car's engine. I couldn't believe it. He never missed Saturday morning with his newspaper. And my condition must have been more than evident to him.

"Come here!" he ordered in a stentorian voice.

Hesitantly, I walked toward him, afraid of what might be coming.

His gaze was locked onto the wet front of my shorts. Then he reached around behind me and felt what must have been two pounds of _s_h_i_t_ filling up my pants.

"You're going to have to learn to pay more attention to what we say!"

To this day, even though the events are all clear in my mind, I don't know exactly what happened in the following split second. All I know is that an instant later my shorts and underpants were down around my thighs and I was sprawled across my father's legs getting my ass smacked!

Dad had never been one to spank us kid, and I don't think I'd had more than a half-dozen spankings in my thirteen years. But this was no kid's spanking! Oh, how he laid into me. He must have given me close to a hundred really hard smacks, and my surprise at being spanked quickly turned into howling, and the tears began to flow. But through all the tears and bawling, a strange thing began to happen. My prick was stiffening up like an iron rod, and my body began to buck in a rhythm to match my dad's swats.

And then the spanking was over. Dad pulled me to my feet and told me to get in the house and cleaned up. With wet eyes, runny nose, and alternately hiccuping and sobbing, I pulled my sodden shorts up around my middle, and that humongous cold turd gave me a really strange sensation as it brushed up against my burning ass.

Quickly I hurried inside and into the bathroom where I pulled down my shorts and looked at my ass in the mirror. It was aflame! A misture or red smeared with brown stains, it was already beginning to puff up from the beating it had taken.

But it was my throbbing _c_o_c_k_ which really held my attention. Trying to remember how I had felt while being spanked, I closed my eyes, wrapped my right hand around it and began to gently smack my ass with my left. One little spasm with my right hand was all it took for something totally out of this world to happen. A stream of white, creamy goo (I didn't learn words like 'cum' and 'jizm' until much later) shot out of my _c_o_c_k_ and all over the sink and mirror. The feeling I had was sort of like an electrical short circuit that shot throughout my entire body and seemed to go from _c_o_c_k_ to ass to heart and back again. It couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, but your body has a way of slowing down time when experiencing intense pleasure. And this was intense!

As I was cleaning myself up, I began to think about having other similar experiences. This was too good a feeling to pass up, and I just had to try it again.

In the next few days, I learned the true meaning of masturbation. My parents became concerned about how long I was staying in the bathroom, rather than trying to get me to go there in the first place.

During the next couple of months, I managed to get my father to spank me two more times. Each turned out to be as good or better than the _s_h_i_t_ spanking. I knew better than to try _s_h_i_t_ting my pants again. That would only have resulted in going to a shrink for therapy in toilet training. In later years, others would spank me for _s_h_i_t_ting in my pants, but never again my father.

The first time, I managed to have him spot me while I was slipping some money out of his wallet. That was a good spanking, especially since he started out using a hairbrush before deciding it was too clumsy and reverted to smacking me with the palm of his hand. But the best was yet to come.

I was too young to drive, but my father allowed me to back the car out of the garage in order to wash it. One hot day that summer, I was just polishing the car when he came out to watch. All that rubbing and polishing was beginning to have an effect on me, and I decided that I just had to provoke him into spanking me. I got into the car and deliberately rammed it into the side of the garage door, crumpling a fender.

Fast as ever, dad had the car door open, my shorts and underpants down around my thighs, and me sprawled across his lap getting my bare ass smacked in front of all the neighbors. I howled like a maniac. Dad was never one to spare the horses, and I have to admit that the initial pain was almost more than I could bear. But after about thirty or forty smacks, the old magic started in again, and my rod stiffened like it was made of stainless steel. My body began to respond to the spanking instead of fighting it. Dad was really riled up this last time, and he went on so long I was afraid I might give the whole show away by coming all over him. But just as my ecstasy was reaching the explosion stage, he let me up and told me to get into the house. When I saw my ass in the mirror, I realized that dad hadn't discriminated with any area. My whole ass was one red piece of hamburger from the top of my crack down to my crotch. Masturbation took on a whole new meaning for me that day.

A few weeks later I marked a day which was at one and the same time happy and sad. It was my birthday, and the folks gave me swell party. But in the middle of it, my father took me aside and told me that I was too old to spank anymore, and that in the future I would be punished my more adult methods. What could I say?

I tried him out a couple of weeks later, but he was true to his word and merely sent me to bed without supper. The happy time was over. But he had given me a precious gift without knowing it, and I will never, ever, forget my first time.

July 10, 1997