From: Quixotoes@aol.com Date: Fri, 6 Sep 1996 07:53:50 -0400 To: Laura@netgate.net Subject: The Alley WARNING: This story contains a nonconsensual nonsexual F/m spanking and a consensual spanking involving minors. It also contains a too-long reverie of autobiography, true in every detail except the most important ones. ************************************************ "The Alley" Every once in a while, a puff of early springtime air wafts by and transports me back to a particularly sensory time in my life. Usually, its the moisture-laden warmth as the temperature pushes toward the 60s; the first buds of the cherry trees with which my hometown is so well treasured begin to bloom; and the air smells of Easter, Passover and baseball. Yes, there are sensations of brisk nights before a pep rally bonfire and the crisp bite of the first snowfall; but for me, the senses that define the dimensions of time and memory are spring and summer. Nights so hot that you wore pajamas to keep from soaking the sheets in sweat; day camps where the major physical activity was swatting gnats; midafternoons spent in the relative comfort of the basement. I was 10 in that early April of 1958 and all of a sudden aware of everything. We lived in what were called semi-detached houses in a new development in what is now considered an "inner city" neighborhood but what was then considered suburban. We lived close to each other, and now, I am constantly surprised that my entire world encompassed such a tiny speck on the map. It was an era before central air conditioning and an era of unlocked doors and post-War prosperity and security. Windows were open, and we played outdoors every chance we could. Baseball games on radio could be followed by just walking past the screened front porches and listening as Whitey Ford, Moose Skowron and even that pesky Hector Lopez would beat the crap out of the beloved Senators. (They even made a movie the year before about the Senators beating the Yankees, but it took the devil to do it!) The information highway of that small world was an alley that ran behind my house, separating two very long streets named after presidents and filled with three-bedroom, front-porched, rec- roomed houses, two of them beneath a common roof. They had short stoops in front, all the better to bounce tennis balls off. The alley was a narrow hill of unpaved concrete, striped with tar that bubbled in the late afternoon sun, and steep enough to cause many a skinned knee and to make wayward tennis balls roll forever to the vacant rock-strewn lot near the bottom, close to where I lived. That alley and the lot were our field of dreams for playing stickball and a throughway by which we all visited -- hopping the chain link fences and bopping through one another's backyard basement entrances or up the side yard wooden kitchen stairs. It wasn't all that strange for new families to move in, but one new kid made a real impression on me, in more ways than one. It was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, fair-faced China doll named Gail whom I shall never forget. She caused me to get my first real spanking. That year, Easter and Passover coincided, so everyone had a week off. Naturally, the boys congregated near the top of that alley hill for stickball. One of the houses that backed up to the "field" belonged to the new family, who we really hadn't seen much. But along about the time the guys were starting to argue so much about whether this was the year that the tie went to the runner, Gail appeared at her back fence, raising her arms to lean against the top metal post and watch curiously. Being a little more sensitive to people than my buddies, I nodded recognition toward her and went about my business of chasing loose balls down the alley. When she didn't go away, I called over from my position as the one infielder and invited her to take a turn at bat. Gail, wearing a thin yellow sundress that showed just a wisp of a slip underneath, and a Huck Finn straw hat, swung five times before making contact. The ball rolled past the pitcher and to me, standing behind him. I jogged over to first base -- the sixth fencepost from the top of the hill -- and put the tag on her. There was certainly no malice in my heart, but my being a boy and she being a girl, the physics of the swipe tag sent Gail careening off the fence and down on one knee. A trickle of blood rolled down her pale shins. Gail was too scared to cry, and I have to admit we were too scurrilous not to laugh. The game was about over anyway, so I sauntered lazily back down the hill, through the back gate and across the flagstone toward the basement steps. Thinking about nothing except whether to play with my toy soldiers before or after watching Howdy Doody, I let the screen door slam and made my way across the linoleum floor to the stairway that led up to the kitchen repository of Oreos and lemonade. I was only a little startled to hear my mother call my name from the laundry room, an alcove near the basement door that was rather sizable for its time. It was a good place for simple games of hide and seek, and it had one of those fabulous fifties inventions -- the laundry chute that carried dirty clothes from the upstairs hallway right down into a basket next to the washer. "I got a call from Mrs. Stewart," my mother said matter of factly. I looked puzzled for a moment. "Gail's mother," she explained curtly. "She said you pushed her down in the alley." Mom's tone was a little more fervent now, as was the arm that reached out to pull me into the room. "What have I told you about that, young man!" There was no question mark at the end of that particular sentence. Now I have just related how an innocent gesture of friendship turned into a routine childhood scrape, but there was a history. For whatever reason psychologists have yet to mine, I had a thin streak of impulsive behavior that occasionally manifested itself in chasing cats down sewers, throwing rocks at squirrels and getting into fights with girls. That wasn't the case this time, but my mother sure didn't have any reason to believe me when I whined, "It was an accident, Mom!" "You have had one too many accidents, Teddy," she replied, "and it's time to put a stop to them." Her fingers curled into my left arm below the shoulder as I tried to protest. But she cut me off. "You are going to see what it's like to get it from a girl -- THIS girl!" I wasn't planning to get in trouble that day and I certainly hadn't planned an escape route because I knew I had done nothing wrong. But justice works in wondrous ways, sometimes. Before I knew it, my mother had me bent under her left arm and she was actually pulling my pants down! I had never been spanked before, other than a couple of few and far between swats for mischief. I don't know what time of day it was, and I forgot whether the Senators lost that afternoon. But I will never forgot what happened in the laundry room. Bent over and pinioned, I received a very traditional pants-down spanking. I was more surprised than anything. Her hand stung, of course, but being a virgin in the corporal arts I didn't know what was expected of me. I howled a little and ached from keeping my butt cheeks tight under the onslaught of about 15 or 20 rapid slaps, but I wasn't crying. In fact, as I recall, my thoughts were of how tension-relieving the spanking felt and the coolness of the dank basement air as it rushed across my bare bottom prior to each lick. "There's gonna be more of this, Teddy," Mom warned as she loosened her grip and let me pull up my pants to run up to my room -- the decision now made that it would be the toy soldiers, because the TV was in the basement and I did not want to face her. Mom was right. In the next two years, there was plenty "more of this," and the regular spankings that commenced that day did have an effect -- I learned to think before committing myself to imprudent action. And I learned that a good licking isn't half as bad as wondering whether you were GOING to be in trouble and wondering whether you HAD done the wrong thing. The jelly in my knees and the firmness of Mom's hand alleviated the need for deep soul searching. The spankings also signaled an end to an earlier regime of yelling and recrimination over perceived misbehavior. And a brief but vigorous session across Mom's lap had the effect of clearing the air of more than the heat and humidity that clung to us almost as tightly as our parents' love. I accepted the spanking with as much equanimity as possible in a precocious 10-year-old, but as I lay rubbing my bottom in bed, surrounded by hard rubber flamethrowers, mortars and Nazi motorcycles, I felt much more hurt by Gail's little act of treachery. I was not going to seek revenge, but the devious Gail virtually invited it the next day. I was aimlessly batting rocks on the lot when she came up behind me wordlessly. When my eyes met hers, a quick flash of hatred turned to mortal shame. She knew what she had done! She certainly knew that an innocent boy had been spanked because of her. How were we going to get along in the same neighborhood for years to come with that kind of start? "I know, Teddy," she purred. "You're wondering why I blamed you." I nodded, unable to say anything lest she get me in trouble again. "I wasn't supposed to be playing yesterday, and not in my dress anyways," she explained. "I was being punished, but I snuck out anyway to watch you." Oh, that girl had a way with words, and all of a sudden, as my chest began tightening and a glow of sympathy flushed downward from my heart to my underpants, she told me: "I had to say you pushed me or I'd a gotten the strap when my dad came home." Still as mute as a gangster on the witness stand, but sweating like a rug merchant in a Turkish bath, I conjured up a million visions of little Gail getting spanked. Those visions have multiplied manifold since then, but at that moment I could not have moved if Pharaoh himself was chasing me down. "I - I- I didn't know you'd get spanked, Teddy," she said with a modicum of sorrow that I quickly judged to be sincere. "The kids told me their parents don't hit them, so I thought it would be okay. What can I do to make it up?" An eternity passed in the two seconds before I dropped my bat and started walking from the flat top of the vacant lot down a gully beneath any view from the alley. I cocked my head, and sure enough Gail followed. I wasn't going to help her, hoping in a way she'd skin her knee again. But like the faithful trouper she would turn out to be in later years, Gail followed daintily, running the last few steps as the hill unfurled before it became a stand of young elms. Today, her parental grounding having been lifted, she was wearing a more casual outfit -- one I will remember long past the day I forget my own name. She was wearing tight white pedal-pushers, frayed pink socks, scuffed black shoes with gold buckles and a middie blouse. Her trademark red bow was secure high on the back of her brown hair. To this day, I don't know how the universe works, but Providence, or whatever you choose to call it, had placed an old rusty metal folding chair at the bottom of the rocky hill. As the old Tammany Hall politician once said, "I saw my opportunity and I took it." I shoved Gail lightly toward the chair, sat down and pulled her over my knee. The reflection of the sun off her white pants nearly blinded me, but I reveled in my temporary infirmity long enough to notice the outline of powder blue panties gripping her thin thighs. As she lay in the familiar position, Gail exhaled a gasp -- not of fear, it seemed, but of expectation. In the moment I was deciding whether to go ahead and risk real trouble by spanking this stranger, she lifted her bottom just enough to tell me yes. I spanked little Gail hard over her pedal-pushers until my hand hurt. Gail, who it turned out was relieved that it was such a light spanking, uttered a few perfunctory "oofs" and "ows." We were both out of breath and out of body. I don't remember if I let her get up, or whether she scrambled off my lap on her own. At any rate, I was happy she arose before my little pecker became fully erect. This time, she led the way. I followed, walking sideways and covering my noticeable glee with my hand, into the trees. It was there we exchanged our first kiss -- a little awkwardly, I confess. But in those few minutes, Debbie and Eddie, Sandra and Bobby, Steve and Eydie, Grace and the prince, would have been jealous. # # #