THE RATTIGAN BOYS
by
Bobb B. Tucker
Copyright 2002 by Bobb B. Tucker.
No part of this story may be
reproduced or transmitted in any
form, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording,
or by any information and retrieval
system without written permission
from the copyright owner
T.J. Concannon, 11, being paddled by his dad
THE STORY SO FAR: In 1950, Fifteen-year-old twins Matthew and Mark Rattigan try
to rob a mom-and-pop grocery store, but botch the job and a clerk is killed.
Mark, who does the shooting, is sentenced to die on the gallows. The judge
sentences Matthew to the Dragonshead Correctory, A boys' prison, run by a
secretive order of monks. Matthew arrives at Dragonshead in chains and is led
to a stage in the prison factory, a jute mill filled with boys and young men
toiling cock-naked at shuttle looms. The monk in charge, Brother Barnaby,
orders Matthew to disrobe in front of the boy-convicts. On the stage is a
pillory, a whipping bench, and a leather tawse. When Matthew makes the
connection between the tawse and his buttocks, he is mortified because he
sprouts a humongous erection in view of a roomful of sexually aroused nude,
teenaged boys. The sight of the tawse triggers a flashback to when, two years
earlier, he and Mark got their first an is both sturdy enough to be spanked and
smart enough to understand why he's being spanked and learn from the experience.
d only whipping for stealing five dollars from their widowed mother.
Mrs. Rattigan tells her 13-year-old sons to call their friend, mentor and
boxing coach, Tom Concannon, a Marine 1st lieutenant who'd served with their
father in the Pacific during World War II. At her request, the Marine agrees to
apply a USMC garrison belt to the boys' bare heinders and orders them to report
to him at his quarters on the Navy base at 1900 hours. Matty and Mark arrive to
learn that Lt. Concannon's eldest son, Chris, their best friend, will be spanked
with them because he was caught with cigarettes earlier in the day. The boys
are ordered upstairs to undress, take pre-spanking baths, and empty their
bladders. A younger son, T.J., enters the bathroom while Chris and the twins
are in the tub and teases them because they're about to be spanked bare-ass. He
leaves but returns shortly to announce that the lieutenant is ready for them and
waiting in the family room downstairs. In keeping with the Concannon family's
spanking ritual, the three boys steel themselves for a licking and pit-a-patter
cock-naked down the stairs. T.J. smirks, holds up the ends of his Cub Scout
neckerchief like a hangman's rope, and teases the older boys by making
GUK-GUK-GUK sounds like a condemned prisoner swinging from a gibbet.
CHAPTER TWO
CLARK KENT'S REVENGE
Christopher growled, "You'd better quit screwin' around if you know what's good
for you, T.J."
T.J. made a face like an evil pixie. "I'll bet'cha cry, Chris," he said.
"I bet'cha a hunnert million dollars you cry."
"So what if I do? It ain't none of your bidness, pussy-boy."
"Last time you got whupped you bawled like a cry baby until Mommy went up
and rubbed cold cream on your ass."
"I didn't either. And you'd better watch it, buddy, 'cause you know
what's gonna happen when you turn twelve next month. I never had a spankin' in
my life 'til my twelfth birthday, but a few days later, my butt got paddled for
playin' hookey."
"Stuff it, Chris. So what if I'm only in sixth grade and you guys are in
junior high? I ain't a pussy-boy."
"You're talkin' brave now because you're eleven and Mommy still handles
your discipline; I can't wait to see the look on your face the first time Daddy
takes his belt off and sends you upstairs to take a bath and use the toilet;
that's when we'll find out if you got balls." Chris squared his shoulders and
rapped on the family room door. It opened and Lieutenant Concannon stood in the
doorway wearing a Marine Corps fatigue uniform that accentuated his lean, sinewy
build. He frowned down at the boys, observant gray eyes taking in every inch of
their naked bodies; they didn't bother to cover tumescent penises.
"Report for duty on the punishment detail, gyrines," Tom Concannon
ordered abruptly. "This detail was designed to discourage future cockiness and
misbehavior while leaving your budding male egos intact. You can expect your
punishment to be quick and painful -- a punishment for boys who have balls in
their sacs." He snapped a USMC garrison belt against the side of his leg and
continued: "Speaking of cockiness, I haven't seen you guys naked for a while; I
notice you're all sprouting wispy little mustaches between your legs and your
penises have grown like hotdogs plumping on a griddle. If I don't watch it,
you'll catch up to me one of these days." Matty and Mark doubted that would
happen anytime soon; earlier that summer they'd accompanied Chris, T.J., and
their dad on a three-day canoe trip along Maine's Saco River; they'd seen
Lieutenant Concannon skinny-dipping half-a-dozen times; the notion that their
dinguses might someday rival his blue-veined donnagher was beyond their ken.
Matthew snapped to attention and chewed anxiously on his lip. "Sir,
Matty Rattigan, Mark Rattigan and Chris Concannon reporting for corporal
punishment as ordered, sir," he blurted. "Unc'a Tom, my weenie's hard because
kids don't have hardly any control over when we get hard-ons."
"At ease, guys," the Marine reassured the boys, "what you have between
your legs are called anticipation boners. Once a boy enters puberty, his penis
is likely to erect when he faces a stressful situation and his glands pump
hormones into his blood stream. If memories of my own boyhood trips to the
woodshed don't fail me, my erections usually wilted before my bottom was fully
hot." Tom Concannon stepped aside to let three naked teenagers file past him
into the family room, turgid erections pointing the way like bowsprits on
old-time clipper ships. "If your boners persist after you've been spanked, I'll
give you a few minutes of privacy in the upstairs bathroom. I expect by age
thirteen you guys have learned how to relieve randy peckers."
"Daddy, can I watch the Chris and the twins get whippin's?" T.J. asked
with a cherubic smile. "Can I?"
"You may not. Run upstairs and wait quietly in your bedroom 'til we're
finished down here."
The boy made a sour face and stuck his lip out like a petulant child.
"You never let me do a goddarn thing," he grumbled. "I'll bet kids in reform
schools have more privileges than I have around here."
"You are treading on extremely thin ice, boy," the father warned. "If I
were you, I'd get my behind topside to my room and I wouldn't so much as stick
my runny little nose out the door 'til things have quieted down and the spanking
detail has been secured."
T.J. shifted a wad of Fleer's Double Bubble Gum to his cheek and craned up
at his father. "What'll happen if I don't go to my room?" he asked
impertinently. "Will I get a lickin' like Chris and the twins?"
"Why don't you try it and find out?" the father parried.
"I was just wonderin' what you'd do."
"Son, your brother is about to be spanked for smoking, the twins, for
stealing. If you feel the need of a dose of the same medicine, tell me and I'll
gladly oblige you; if not, go to your room. The choice is yours."
Little T.J. brushed an unruly cowlick from his eyes and pondered his
options; then he puffed out his chest like a bantam rooster. "I smoke just as
much as Chris," he bragged, "and sometimes I steal things. I swiped a quarter
outta the collection plate at Sunday School last week, and I took a couple drags
off Chris's cigarette this morning. Is that bad enough for a spankin', or are
you gonna let me off with a lecture again?"
Tom Concannon beckoned his youngest son into the family room, cupped his
chin , tilted his head back gently, and looked straight into his unblinking blue
eyes. "A moment ago I'd about decided to line you up with the older boys and
pepper your bratty little heinder 'til it smokes," he said gruffly. "But I
reconsidered because I've tried to avoid resorting to corporal punishment before
my boys turn twelve. However, in view of what you just told me, although you're
still a bit short of your twelfth birthday, I'll make an exception in your case,
T.J. Starting today, and continuing for as long as you live in my house, your
standard punishment will be two whacks on your naked behind with a paddle or a
strap for every birthday you've had. Since you've had eleven birthdays, you
just talked yourself into twenty-two Bayer-Ass Burns, mister."
T.J. gulped and nearly swallowed his gum, but quickly recovered his
composure. He winced and said, "Okey-doke, Daddy. I reckon I deserve it."
The father turned to his older boy. "Christopher," he said, "do you
remember the first few spankings you got from me? I had you fashion a spanking
paddle out of a paddle-ball paddle; you decorated it with a Superman decal and
painted it yellow, blue and red. I used it on you a time or two before you
became a teenager and graduated to the garrison belt."
"Sure, Daddy. I uster call it Clark Kent's Revenge."
"I retired Clark Kent the day you turned thirteen, but it's still hanging
in the front hall closet. In your honest opinion, will twenty-two whacks from
Mr. Kent be sufficient to wipe the smartass expression off your little brother's
face?"
Chris weighed his father's question. "Daddy," he said gravely,
"twenty-two whacks from that paddle will make an angel outta any kid -- even
T.J."
"Good -- the matter is settled. You heard your brother, T.J., march
like a proper Marine to the front hall closet and bring back Clark Kent's
Revenge; we'll see what impression the mild-mannered reporter makes on your
skinny young ass."
T.J. didn't much look like a Marine; he had on a wrinkled Cub Scout
uniform shirt, yellow neckerchief, and baggy sweat pants; he tucked his
shirttails into his sweats and nearly tripped over his feet in his haste to obey
his father. The lieutenant tried, but couldn't conceal, a hint of bemused pride
behind his facade of disapproval. The boy returned, paddle in hand, to stand
manfully before his father, shoulders square, chin pulled in, backbone ramrod
straight. He handed Clark Kent's Revenge to his dad and said, "Am I s'posed to
get naked or somethin', sir?"
"Take off your shirt and pull down your sweats and skivvies so Mr. Happy's
hanging down."
"Aye-aye, sir." The boy struggled with his neckerchief slide, buttons and
drawstrings and thumbed down his sweat pants and Jockeys. "I got a boner, too,"
he said, blushing modestly.
"So I see. You guys are just brimming with testosterone today, aren't
you?"
T.J. glanced uneasily at the mantelpiece, where a Velveteen picture of
Jesus that he'd won for Sunday School attendance hung, its eyes following him
disapprovingly. "I wish Jesus would look somewhere else," he muttered. "He's
starin' at my dick."
"Then, he ain't seein' much," Mark Rattigan sidemouthed.
"That'll do, Rattigan," the lieutenant snapped.
"Sorry, Unc'a Tom," the redhead said with an angelic grin. Who would have
guessed then that in exactly four years, Mark would kick his life away at the
end of a hangman's rope in the rotunda of the New Hampshire Men's Prison?
T.J. held his hands protectively over his rear. "This is sure gonna be a
good lesson to me, Daddy," he said. "Since I'm the youngest, can I be first?"
"I don't see why not. Remember, son, you practically begged for this."
The man turned his son by the shoulders to face a swivel chair in the corner.
"Kneel backwards on the chair, get a firm grip on the backrest, then sit on your
heels and bend over so your bottom pokes out. I promised you twenty-two whacks,
and that's exactly what you'll get. It will take about two minutes."
"Yes, sir," said the boy.
"You'll get extra swats if you put your hand back to cover yourself or try
to jump up, so do not resist this, mister."
"I won't, Daddy." T.J. bottom rimpled like a sheet of corrugated paper.
"Are you ready?"
"Let 'er rip," T.J. piped up. His pale pink buttocks poked out like
strawberry Moon Pies. The lieutenant brought Clark Kent's Revenge down on the
boy's left asscheek with a snap like the report of a .22 caliber rifle. T.J.
bucked like a billy goat; a juicy pink wad of Fleers Double Bubble Gum popped
from his mouth and rolled under the table. He let out a shrill soprano bellow
that rattled the windowpanes in their frames. "Ow, Daddy!" he hollered, "that
hurt!"
Lieutenant Concannon approached the task of spanking T.J. methodically,
applying paddle to boyskin at measured five second intervals, impervious to his
son's lusty protests. A pair of pigeons on the windowsill fluttered off in
search of a quieter place to roost. Neighbors for half a block in every
direction noted with satisfaction that the Concannon brats were finally getting
their comeuppances.
When the ordeal was over at last, T.J. jumped up, clutched his
incandescent buttocks with both hands, and jigged in tight circles about the
family room, his little redcap flapping like a wet sock on a clothes line.
Lieutenant Concannon put down the paddle, picked up the garrison belt, and
turned to face Matthew, Mark and Chris, who stood with their backs to the wall,
shaking as if they were pissing razor blades. "Who's next?" he asked.
TO BE CONTINUED
