[illustration]

I hadn't had a feeling like this since I was in high school--and that was thirty years ago. It was a powerful feeling, not like butterflies in my stomach, but like butterflies in my chest and all over my body generating an electric current of powerlessness, of dread and fear of the unknown, of guilt and embarassment, and of ecstatic _s_e_x_ual longing. It was the day my friend Snyder got called out of gym class to report to the principal's office for a heavy dose of the paddle--a dose that had been put off several times just to create dread, fear, and remorse. I was so scared then. Snyder was wearing only a jock strap, thin gym shorts, and a tee shirt, and he and I both knew that his beautiful, muscular butt was going to be set on fire. We knew that he even may end up slightly bruised after his punishment. I knew that the strong athlete I so admired would soon become a sobbing child, embarassed by his own wet and reddened eyes upon returning to class. I knew, too, that when the bell rang, I would get to see his war wounds in the shower. In those days I thought that I was the only one who had that nervous, embarassed, flushed, electric feeling upon hearing the resounding reverberation of the whack of the paddle echoing down the halls of our rural, Southern school. Years later I learned that I was not alone. Keith and Randall lived on an old home place complete with old barns, in an old Southern home with seven doors to the outside world. The setting was gradually being swallowed by modern suburban sprawl. Their summer parties were legendary and will be talked about for years to come. There was no better way that I knew of to meet all kinds of men, especially masculine, often large and muscular, and always friendly, accepting, and sensitive ones. Men had been coming and going since about ten in the evening on a Friday night. The soft clatter of the diesel engines of the eighteen-wheelers blended with animated conversation and added to the effect of the sensual, yet driving music. Occasionally the sound of a Harley announced the arrival or departure of another guest. Hearty and sometimes raucous laughter as well as the sounds of horseplay could be heard periodically. At two in the morning there was the sweet smell of smoke and summer in the air. Suddenly something happened to me.

There it was. I heard that sound. It was a sound which altered my state of mind as if fireworks were exploding on a distant island on the Fourth of July. It was an unmistakable sound. It was the sound of a heavy, long wooden paddle connecting perfectly to muscular buns through tight denim.

Whack! One. Whack! Two. Whack! Three. The swats came about every two seconds. I was shaking. I was flushed. I was confused. These licks were being given by an expert who knew all about gradual buildup, left-right balance, and the sweet spot on a hot guy's ass which was can cry out and beg for a heavy eighteen-inch paddle. Whack! Four. Whack! Five. Whack!

Six.

Whack! Seven! I was so nervous. I was always the one who started this sorta thing. This time someone else was in control. I was so devastated that I couldn't even continue making coffee for the guys. Pow! Eight. Pow!

Nine.

Pow! Ten. I looked out the kitchen door. Just as I thought--it was Keith, a former trainee of mine, a level seven graduate, giving those firm whacks to some hot, young stud. But then I saw something that awoke that mysterious feeling I'd wrestled with so often in high school: it was my young protege, Paul, who was getting the beating of his life. Yes, Paul, my little student, my young trainee, my sensitive young theater major and body builder, my well-kept secret, was graduating to another level. He was just standing back up from having been bent over the back porch to receive the introductory whacks of his initiation into the world of older men. I stood admiring his fifty-five inch chest and boyish, painful grimace, and as he briefly stood on tiptoe and reached back with both hands to rub his hot, burning hiney through his filled-out jeans.

Then that feeling hit harder. I was shaking. I was confused. I was flushed and slightly nauseous. A whirlpool of emotion was trying to escape through my chest. I left the house and walked to a dark part of the yard to collect my thoughts. I was scared. I knew by the sound of these fireworks that I was expected to show up at the back porch soon. (People already thought it was I back there causing all the excitement.) What was causing this feeling? Was it that I was afraid that I might have to take my seven, or even ten extra hard licks, absolutely cold sober? Was it that I hadn't been giving those licks to that young stud? Was I jealous or hopelessly in love?

Or was it that I knew that this was punishment, like in high school.

This wasn't an arranged scenario of the principal's office or a fraternity initiation, or even a dice game of chance that Paul and I had often done.

This was punishment. This really hurt him. This really hurt me. I knew, now, that I needed my punishment soon.

After avoiding the back porch for almost a half-hour, I finally worked up the nerve to go around there. Paul proudly came over and backed his hot ass up to me. I reached out and felt his hot, firm denim and knew that he had been hit hard. I could tell by the precise location of the heat that he had been hit by a true expert. Now I was more nervous than ever. Could I take this type of punishment as I had so many times before, especially from such an expert as Keith? Would I embarass myself--I being such an authority--in front of the gathering crowd?

The Blue Oyster Cult became John Zorn, now gushing from the stereo.

The eighteen-wheelers and their air conditioners ran in the distance.

My heart was pounding. I humbly bent over the porch, palms down on the old wood.

I asked Keith for seven--no, ten!--firm licks. Keith carefully took the heavy fraternity paddle, the one I made and gave to him when we were together.

I knew all too well what was coming. My heart was in my throat. Then the firm licks came. Whack! One. Whack! Two. Whack! Three. I could feel the firm pressure of the wood through my thick jeans, tee shirt, and underwear.

Whack!

Four. Whack! Five. I wanted to feel the sting of the paddle. Whack!

Six.

Whack! Seven. We used to stop at seven. Whack! Ow! Whack! Ah! Whack!

Ahh! I asked if that was the same intensity as Paul got. Keith said it was.

It just wasn't working. Was my tolerance too high from all my experience, or was it the protection of my clothing that made me crave more? Why did I crave this punishment so badly?

I went to my car and put on my old, tight, familiar jeans over crisp white briefs. I pulled my shirt tail out and went back to the back porch.

Paul was hinting to Keith that he could use some more licks, but Keith wasn't paying much attention to him now. Later, he approached me and asked for ten.

Happy to oblige, I asked, "Which paddle?" He replied, "My favorite." He bent over the porch just as he had bent over my heavy library table so many times.

I gazed down and admired him in this submissive position, taking in his broad muscular shoulders and back. With my left hand I rubbed his head, savoring his high and tight Marine jarhead haircut with my left hand as I worshipped his muscular, smiling bubble butt which filled his 32/30 560's. So many thoughts fought in my head. I could never hurt this beautiful creature.

Sure, I had given him some bruises before. Sure, I'd made those college desks seem extra hard for a week before, but I could never really hurt this boy--this boy who could be my son. I gave him ten firm, fairly hard licks. The seventh through the tenth elicited a sizzle of air through Paul's teeth. The last two double-speed licks caused him to raise his head and arch his back at the end of the session. I was making love to him with the paddle.

As I was pondering this painful paradox, Paul came up to me and said, "It's your turn." I felt a rush of blood in my groin. I was ready to welcome the enevitable. Slightly embarassed, I unzipped my jeans, dropped them to my ankles, and bent over the porch, my ass shining with my new, tight, white briefs. Paul chose my wide and heavy fraternity paddle and started working on my tail. Whack! One. Whack! Two. Whack! Three. Paul was making love to me. Whack! Four. His gradual buildup showed a sensitivity and expertise that I was proud of. Whack! Five. He connected firmly to both of my large buttocks. Whack! Six. He was in control now. I no longer had to make any decisions. Pow! Seven. By the seventh lick I was ecstatic, but he kept on going. Pow! Jeez! Whack! Ahh! Whaaam! Ahhhooww! The tenth lick put me over the edge. Paul gave me ten of the best licks I'd ever had. He had burned my tail up! My ass was on fire! I thought I was going to pass out as I shot a week's worth into my briefs. I gradually stood up, slightly dizzy, and pulled up my jeans. I was so glad to have Paul as a friend. We hugged, then wrestled each other to the ground and rolled on the wet grass awhile, laughing uncontrollably.

About four o'clock in the morning, the few remaining guys had gathered in the living room of the old house. Keith was making cracks about stringing Paul up, spread eagle, from the four eye hooks that were hidden in the entrance hall doorway. Paul submitted, was stripped, and the guys restrained him with fleece-lined schackles attached to chains from above and below. I don't think he knew what he had agreed to. I saw Paul's burned up tail and was overcome with emotion. I knew what they were going to do to my boy. This would not be a playful fantasy. This would be torture. I left the party. I was in tears on the way home. They were going to hurt my young friend.

I still haven't figured out if I was crying tears of fear, love, jealousy, or sorrow, or perhaps just wishing I could have stayed and been the master--or perhaps the slave.

The next day Paul called and told me he wanted to come by and show me something. He did. He came over, dropped his pants, and showed me some of the most beautiful cat-o-nine scratches and paddle prints I had ever seen.

His perky, muscular tail was still red then--twelve hours later. There was the hint of an ever so slight bruise of bluish-gray beginning to show on the thickest part of his ass. He even had vertical paddle ridges where his firm cheeks were forced together by the pounding of the heavy wood. He told me that he remembered crying out. He said he remembered writhing in pain against his chains. He remembered unembarassed tears streaming down his face.

But he said that it was nothing that he couldn't handle. He told me with his innocent grin and boyish smile that he was glad to have had the experience, but didn't think he wanted an encore anytime soon. When I asked if he remembered hearing a slave in the next room screaming and then realizing that the screams were his own, he said quietly, "I heard it." Paul had been there.

Someone else had taken him there. Maybe now he and I can go there together.