Date: Wed, 4 Sep 1996 21:21:24 -0400 X-Sender: teddyt@teddyt.pop.crosslink.net Mime-Version: 1.0 To: laura@netgate.net From: Ted Subject: Summer Reverie WARNING: The following is fiction. It involves a putative F/m spanking. Summer Reverie Summer in DC in the 1950s was a time I will always remember, not so much for what happened but for the things I thought and dreamed. It was a time of torpid government, nothing like the Mongolian cluster fuck of today's polity, and an era before rock'n'roll, when "Hot Diggity Dog Ziggity Boom What You Do to Me" was considered risque. Sometimes when I step outside for a smoking break, the still humidor of Washington's atmosphere reels in long-faded memories. Summers were hot; so hot that the statues would sweat; that the tar across cracks in the back alley bubbled by 11 a.m. No sports camps, no summer school, no part-time jobs. It was hazy, humid, dank, a season of neck rashes and sunburn. A season of crankiness, anger, no air conditioning --- and mischief, if you had enough energy. A season of burning sidewalks, burning tempers and, if you were not careful, burning bottoms. Sometimes moms and dads were just too tired to administer de riguer spankings and just flicked out at you with a belt across your bare arms or thighs as you scampered away in slow motion. I suspect quite a few kids would have found relief in a bare-bottom trip over the knee -- if it was booked for the cooler rumpus room. With no air conditioning, windows and doors were always open, and leisure time consisted of sitting on the kitchen porch rail or the front stoop. There was little that escaped our attention. Most of my friends got it -- Jeff and Joel next door, David a few doors up the street, Stuart farther up the street, Stevie up and across the back alley. And my private-schoolmates but not neighbors, Ruth, Cynthia and Carol -- but alas, only in my fantasies. Having fantasized about spanking all my life, but never having gotten one, I kept quiet and made no big deal about what was so routine for my friends. Just once did I offer a comment, and that was the day after I sat on the kitchen side porch (a wooden platform up a few stairs) at dusk and heard the European accent of David's mom screaming bloody murder. I heard the soprano imprecations of his big sister, Rachel, followed by the unmistakable WHOP WHOP WHOP of a severe strapping coming from their basement two houses away. The shrieking was, actually, sickening, and it gave me no pleasure. When I saw David the next day, I casually commented that Rachel must have gotten it pretty bad. It was the last time I spoke before thinking (well, for a long time anyway). "It wasn't her," he mumbled. "It was me." I don't know who felt more like sinking further into a hole, but the echoes of his screeching the night before taught me that a belt-licking was something to be avoided. Especially since sleeping was hard enough on sweat-soaked sheets without a blistered butt. I came close only once that summer. We were watching TV (Make Room for Daddy, I believe) and I was idly taking apart Mom's kitchen timer. We were all in foul moods to match the late June odor wafting up from the space beneath the front porch. I had been giving Mom a hard time all day, and when she cut loose at the sight of gears and springs all over the floor, Dad stepped in and scooped me up and carried me to my room. "You oughtta get a lickin,' you know," he said in his pipe-clenched monotone. I just grunted, he swatted me on the seat and dumped me into bed for the night. Sleep came quickly and suddenly I was dreaming of my distant Aunt Martha, my mom's much younger adopted sister. She lived in California, and I heard from her occasionally by letter and by birthday gift via parcel post. The few times I saw her at weddings or funerals, I was enthralled. She was pretty, smart and treated me as an equal, talking about the world, the human condition and about the darker side of some family members. I had no idea of what California looked like, but it didn't matter as I floated, prefiguratively, into lalaland. I was sitting nervously in Aunt Marty's sunny living room, palm trees outside and the beach in the near distance. "Oh, Danny, it's so good to have you visiting with me for a while," she gushed. I mumbled affirmation but kept looking at the cut of her capri pants, wondering if this, in fact, wasn't what a woman should really look like. If I didn't already know, I would have bet my moving-carton of baseball cards that she WAS adopted. No female in my family or neighborhood wore anything like Aunt Marty wore -- nor could they. Not long after I arrived on my special cloud of wish -- how I got there I don't know but it certainly wasn't as phantasmagoric as Dorothy's trip to Oz -- Aunt Marty interrupted my reading of yet another John R. Tunis novel. "Dannnny," she sighed in obvious disappointment. "I see you are still biting your nails." "Yeah," I demurred. "It's such a habit I never even realized I was doing it." "Well, it's going to stop, young man. I know it's hard. I gave up smoking and that's hard, too. But we can do it a little at a time. Sit there and read, and try not to bite for a whole hour." "Yeah," and I went back to "The Kid from Tompkinsville" and my favorite character, Razzle the pitcher, whose profile was surrounded by new words I always had to look up, like "unperturbable." Ten minutes later, Aunt Marty returned with some freshly squeezed lemonade, not at all unperturbed. "Danny, I swear! Where are your fingers." I had to remove them from my mouth to answer, "I dunno." "All right, young man. You stay here." I stayed, and took a train ride from Brooklyn to St. Louis with the team. I HEARD Aunt Marty returning by the jangle from her wrist. It was no bracelet. She was carrying a set of metal handcuffs. "Up!" she commanded, and I uncurled from the wicker rocking chair. "Since you can't control your hands, Danny, maybe these will help." She turned me around with a gentle wisp and clamped the cuffs around my thin wrists. I was befuddled, of course, but she seemed to soothe whatever misgivings I might have had. "You've played cops and robbers before. Well, now you're the robber, Danny. You've been robbing yourself of your good looks by such self destructive behavior. One hour in my special bracelet -- that's all this time," she said so warmly I had no idea I was being punished. I found it hard to turn pages with the cuffs behind me, so I sat and pouted. She sat and read "Better Homes and Gardens," eventually pausing to see how I was doing. Aunt Marty was always solicitous of my feelings and offered, "I know it's hard." It had only been 15 minutes, but the metal was starting to bite and every one of my million pores seemed to itch! At home, I had been known to whine a bit, but I tried always to act polite in public. This was a dilemma. I figured that Aunt Marty, despite the questionable circumstances of birth, was still family. So I began whining, griping and even sniveling a little at my predicament. "Oh, stop that," she cut me off. "I'm sure you've been reprimanded before. Every kid your age gets whacked, and all I'm trying to do is make the punishment fit the crime." I shook my head. "Not me," I sassed. "What do you mean, Daniel?" Aunt Marty asked. "Are you telling me you've never been spanked for an attitude like this?" I shook my head again, which was a mistake because the front cowlick swept across my forehead and tickled, and there was no way to relieve the sensation. "Well, young man, (how I was learning to cringe at the phrase), you have a full hour of this and if I hear anymore mewling from you, you are in for a surprise." It didn't take but five minutes before I pleaded, "C'mon, Aunt Marty. Let me out of these." She just glared, then unwrapped her legs from beneath her hips where she sat and rose. She strode toward me in her slip-slapping flipflops. Up she pulled me, turned me around and unlocked the cuffs. "Come with me," she neither asked nor ordered. It was more of a stage direction, and off I went, my right elbow in her left hand. Right past the marble-topped commode, where she paused to reach for a long-handled and very oval brush that I had thought before was some sort of horse thing, or maybe a California thing. I would find out differently soon enough as she showed me her bedroom. "Danny, welcome to your first spanking," Aunt Marty said with what I would recall the next morning as hint of pride. As I stood agog in front of her, glancing down the scooped vent of her silk top as she sat on the bed corner, she quickly unbuttoned my madras Bermudas. When I felt the breeze from her Casablanca fan, I realized my BVDs were at my ankles and I was standing before this pretty sophisticate bare from the waist down. She opened her legs and pulled me downward, diagonally across her left capri slack. Aunt Marty applied about a dozen quick smacks with her hand in silence, except for the tantalizing whap of soft palm against soft skin. I was embarrassed as all get-out, but I had to admit it wasn't so bad. Just as I was coming to terms with it, Aunt Marty laid the smooth wood of the hairbrush against the lower part of my butt, and I shivered, rippling fear and shock across the ruffly room. CRACKKKKK!!!!! I felt it, sure enough, but it was the force of the first lick, not the intense sting, that jerked me forward. WHHHHACCCCKKKK!!!!! The second one at least had the benefit of equalizing the barb of discipline on the other side of my butt. SSSSSMMMMACCCCKKKK!!! The third one landed squarely across the middle of my bared seat, and this one, surprisingly, actually felt warm and pacifying. Aunt Marty spanked me over and over again with her wooden hairbrush. I felt it, but it was not nearly as bad as I had imagined. I was more chagrined at being naked over her lap and for having let her down than at the smarting she was sculpting in crimson across her nephew's virgin bottom. She worked silently and scrupulously, as she would in later years as a master crafter of Southwestern jewelry, knick knacks and paddywhacks. All I could hear was my heart throbbing, and all I could feel was my hips tingling and thrusting. I became aware that this was, indeed, a spanking, and that perhaps to make it end I ought to act the part of a naughty nephew. I opened my mouth to holler out an apology and a plea. But all that came out was the "aaaaakk" of involuntary spasm. The next thing I felt was the sweaty sheet sticking to my back and the warm viscous dribble of my first wet dream trickling sideways down my belly. ###