THE RATTIGAN BOYS
by
BOBB B. TUCKER
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 prior written permission from the
copyright owner
Matthew Rattigan, age 15,
undressing for nacktarsch
therapy at Dragonshead
Correctory, circa 1950
CHAPTER ONE
Jergen Meinhard stroked his chin and studied the prisoner's nude body as
if he were assessing the work capacity of a boy newly arrived at a Dickensian
almshouse. "This is your last chance, Rattigan," he said. "If you fuck up
here, you'll likely end up dancing an Irish jig at the end of a hangman's rope.
I suggest you accept the fact that you're in prison, boy. How soon you leave
here -- assuming you leave here alive -- will depend upon how well you follow
orders. Some inmates never learn to take orders; they end up bloody and
cock-naked in convict's graves before their bodies have cooled after the
hangman has done his job."
Warden Meinhard pursed his lips and glowered across his desk at the
newcock. "I've studied your records, and I suspect that's the fate in store
for you if you don't straighten up. You and your brother, Mark, were high
school sophomores when you committed an armed robbery and a homicide. Unless
you're determined to end up like him, dancing on air with your tongue hanging
out and a gallows boner poking out the front of your pants, I suggest you
accept that you were sent to Dragonshead Island to be punished -- not
rehabilitated." The young convict's name was Matthew Rattigan. In 1950, while
growing up in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, Matthew and his twin brother, Mark,
robbed a mom-and-pop grocery store. Matthew hadn't known that his brother had
a gun in his waistband; the twins planed to grab a girlie magazine from the
rack and disappear before the clerk could stop them. They'd done it before;
whenever they stole a whack-off magazine they'd head for their secret hideout in
the woods and practice the universal boy's vice 'til their penises were red and
galled.
Matthew was genuinely surprised when his brother pulled out the .25
caliber nickel plated Saturday night special that their mother kept in her
dresser for protection, waved it, and yelled for the clerk to open the cash
register. The old man grabbed for the gun; it went off, shooting him in the
mouth; he died three days later at Portsmouth General Hospital. The boys were
caught and tried as adults for murder. Mark was sentenced to die on the gallows
at the New Hampshire Mens' Prison; he was executed in 1952.
Because his grandparents in Ireland hired good lawyers, and because he
hadn't been the triggerman, strings were pulled and Matthew was committed to the
Dragonshead Correctory for Criminally Disordered Boys. Dragonshead was a
maximum security prison run by the Brothers of Durance, an order of Celtic monks
devoted to working among the most violent boys in the United Kingdom through a
regimen of hard work, strict prison discipline, and Draconian punishments for
those who broke the rules. Located in the Skillies, remote islands that
peppered the southern end of the English Channel, it was a prison for boys
who'd outgrown the borstal (juvenile) system but weren't quite ready for adult
prisons.
After his sentencing Matthew Rattigan was flown under guard to England, where he
spent three days in a gaol at Land's End awaiting transport to Dragonshead
Island on the weekly supply boat. He spent the ninety-minute boat trip shackled
to Danny MacAuley, a redheaded Irish lad with hunter green eyes and a boyish
smile; MacAuley was being returned to the correctory in chains because he'd
overstayed a three-day pass to attend the funeral of an aunt in Londonderry.
Throughout the trip, he seemed nervous, as if dreading the reception that
awaited him at Dragonshead. When Matthew asked him what had put itching powder
in his jockstrap he said that Matty would find out about Warden Meinhard's
nacktarsch therapy soon enough.
Etched against a pewter sky the mist-shrouded Castle on Dragonshead Island
loomed from the roiling Atlantic; the ancient fortress had guarded the entrance
to the English Channel since Roman legions occupied the British Isles 1,500
years earlier. The sea breaking at the base of the promontory sent spume
swashing three stories high against a rugged granite cliff. Above the supply
boat, tendrils of silver lightning flitted among the castle's
gullshit-spattered battlements. "Say 'ello to your new 'ome, laddie," the boat
captain said, "'cos I expect hell will jolly well freeze over before you breathe
free air again." A black-robed monk was waiting on the dock when the boat tied
up. Young, tall, and freckle-faced, he appeared to be still in his teens.
Ignoring Daniel MacAuley, he said to Matthew, "I'm Brother Barnaby, and I expect
you're Rattigan, the American boy."
"Yes, Brother, I am," Matthew replied, remembering his manners.
"We don't often get a Yank 'ere," the monk said. "You'll likely not
enjoy your stay at Dragonshead, Rattigan; you'll understand why when you meet
Warden Meinhard." The monk spoke with an accent which Matthew was unable to
place.
"I'll try to behave myself while I'm here, Brother," the convict said
diffidently.
"Yes -- you do that. In the meanwhile, you and MacAuley are wanted in
the castle, so follow me." Still dressed in the suit he'd worn at his
sentencing, Matthew followed Brother Barnaby up a treacherously steep path to
Dragonshead Castle; Danny MacAuley brought up the rear.
They arrived at the outer portico puffing from the climb. Brother Barnaby
hitched a donkey to a capstan and with it winched up a portcullis that had once
kept Norsemen out of the fortress and now kept British boys in. No sooner were
they inside the courtyard than the grille dropped with a thud like Hell's gate
slamming. The monk turned and said, "I expect you know wot's coming next,
MacAuley."
The Irish boy flushed and his face wrinkled like a capuchin monkey's.
"Nacktarsch therapy, I suppose, Brother," he sighed.
With shoulders slumping, the boy-convicts followed the friar across the
courtyard to the door to the castle's main keep; brother Barnaby raised a brass
knocker and rapped three times. A stooped old monk swung the door open to admit
them to the castle's great room, an enormous vaulted hall smelling redolently of
boysweat, bean farts, axle grease, stale urine and smegma. In Medieval times it
had housed the garrison that manned the fortress's cannons. Now, overseen by
hooded friars, two dozen cock-naked teenaged boys operated foot treadles that
powered noisy shuttle looms. Other boys sat at the looms in sweat-soaked
underpants, spinning jute into gunny and burlap for sale to the British Navy. A
younger boy circulated among the sweaty workers with a water bucket.
The monk snapped his fingers. "This way, lads," he said, motioning
Rattigan and MacAuley toward a platform in the center of the hall. The stage
held a hinged frame for pillorying misbehaved boys, subjecting naked youths 4.
to the catcalls and comments of their peers. Next to the pillory was a squat
oak bench with attached straps for pinioning young offenders belly down while a
black leather tawse was applied to bare behinds. Also on the platform was a
sturdy cage of welded Rebar, big enough to hold two boys with room to spare.
"The warden says I'm to teach you chaps your manners," Brother Barnaby
announced. "Rattigan, I do so 'ope you aren't modest, because during World War
II, Warden Meinhard was a hauptmann in the German Army; he was assigned as
Commandant of the Nazi Youth Disziplin Kaserne at Berchtesgaden. Toward the end
of the war, once Hitler realized his side was losing, he conscripted thousands
of German boys, many as young as twelve, as front line troops in a desperate
effort to halt the Allied Force's advance on Berlin. Hauptmann Meinhard was the
officer responsible for making examples of the boys who broke ranks and ran
when they encountered enemy fire. He discovered pain and humiliation to be
powerfully effective deterrents in his dealings with teenaged soldiers who put
their own well-being ahead of the greater good of the Vaterland. To motivate
Hitler Youth to fight bravely, he designed a series of punishments for shirkers
so unpleasant that boys sooner risked their lives in trench warfare than face
Hauptmann Meinhard's wrath. He called the punishments his nacktarsch therapy;
you are about to find out why."
"Nacktarsch is German for 'bare arse,' Danny MacAuley sidemouthed.
A awkward silence enveloped the room. "Take all your clothes off, lads,
and let's get on with it," Brother Barnaby directed.
The Irish boy fumbled open his shirt. "You'd best do wot he says,
Rattigan," he urged. "Don't you worry none, because no female will come
waltzing through the door while our monsters are waggin' in the breeze."
Matthew shrugged. "Who's worried?" he asked. His eyes wandered to a
leather tawse hanging on a post by the whipping bench and his penis commenced to
stiffen. "Well," he hedged, "per'aps I'm a tiny bit worried. I haven't had but
one butt-whipping in my whole life."
Matthew had gotten that lone whipping in 1948, during the seventh inning stretch
of the first game of a twilight doubleheader between the Braves and the
Phillies. As was usually the case, Matty and Mark Rattigan were partners in
crime and shared the consequences when they were caught. They were
tousle-headed 13-year-olds when they got the idea that their mother wouldn't
miss five dollars if they "borrowed" it from the nest egg she kept against the
day they could afford one of the newfangled television sets that had recently
come on the market. But mothers always seem to know what their sons are up to.
Madge Rattigan discovered the money missing before her boys could spend it on
cigarettes and comic books to stock their secret clubhouse. She confronted her
sons; they batted puppy dog eyes and professed their innocence "on Jesus' holy
name." She didn't buy it and made them turn out their pockets; a wadded five
dollar bill tumbled from Mark's pants, and Madge Rattigan's sons were caught
like flies on flypaper.
She convened a family court-martial to discuss punishment options for boys
who steal. Matty and Mark maintained that since they'd been caught before the
money was spent, and the five dollars had been returned to its hiding place, no
crime had been committed so no punishment was in order. Their mother quickly
dispelled that reasoning and seemed to be leaning toward placing them on house
restrictions for the balance of their school vacation when Matty had an
inspiration; he wanted desperately to avoid a summer of room confinement
without as much as a radio to keep him company; a kid can masturbate just so
many times.
Considering the alternative, he determined that an extreme situation
called for extreme measures. "Mom," he asked, "what if I call Lieutenant
Concannon and tell him what we did? I bet he'd make us sorry we stole the
money." Mark glowered at his brother. Marine 1st Lieutenant Tom Concannon
lived on the Portsmouth Naval base with his wife and two children; during the
war he'd served with the twins' dad in the Pacific. S/Sgt Jack Rattigan was
killed on Saipan when the twins had been nine. Since his death, Lieutenant
Concannon had taken them under his wing and treated them as if they were his
own boys. He was executive officer of the Marine guard company at the Naval
base; he was also the twins' YMCA peewee boxing coach.
"Hey, don't I have a say in this?" Mark objected. "Maybe I don't want to
be punished by Lieutenant Concannon. Did'ja ever think of that?"
Always the braver of the two, Matty shot back, "Shut up, Mark. You can
stay in the house all summer if you want to. "I'd rather get it over with.
Whippins' only last a minute or two; maybe it won't be so bad."
Mrs. Rattigan smiled tightly and said, "I think it would be a significant
experience for both you guys."
Mark's lower lip shot out -- a sign that he was in his stubborn mode. "It
would hurt," he objected, "Lieutenant Concannon's strong."
"Mark, honey, just because your brother made a suggestion doesn't mean you
have to follow suit," the boy's mother said. "You're free to serve your
punishment confined to quarters for the summer if you prefer."
"That isn't fair, Mom," Mark complained. "I'll miss seein' the Fourth of
July fireworks at Hampton Beach next week."
Madge Rattigan turned to Matthew and said, "Matty, it appears your
brother has chosen house restrictions over being punished by Lieutenant
Concannon. In view of that, do you want to reconsider your decision?"
"Heck, no," the boy replied. "I reckon I'll take my chances with the
lieutenant's belt."
"Tom Concannon told me after your dad died to let him know if I ever need
a strong male hand to keep you guys in line; I think now's the time to take him
up one his offer. Matty, you're to call him, tell him exactly what you did, and
ask if he'd be willing to punish you as he'd punish his own son. I'm sure,
considering what you did, he'll apply a boy's punishment where you'll remember
it for a very long time to come.
"Mark, this is your last chance to change your mind and avoid being
confined to the house for the rest of your summer vacation."
"Aw, Mom, can't'cha let me and Matty off with a warning, just this one
time?" Mark whined. "We promise we won't do it again."
"Be a man, son; accept the consequences of your actions."
A cold knot formed in Mark's stomach. "If Lieutenant Concannon whups me,
can I wear my gym shorts and a couple extra pairs of skivvies un'erneath my
pants? He asked. "He won't know the difference."
"You know better than that," his mother said reproachfully.
Mark heaved a long sigh. "I'd sure as heck hate to miss the fireworks,"
he groused.
An hour later, Matthew and Mark were knocking on the door of a white clapboard
house on the Naval Base. The knock was answered by the Concannon's oldest boy,
Christopher; the blue-eyed towhead was a classmate of the twins at Portsmouth
Jr. High School. "Our mom sent us over to see your dad," Mark said.
Chris did not look happy; he stood back and motioned the Rattigan boys
inside. "I know," he said, "you guys clipped five bucks from your mom and my
old man's gonna beat your butts for it. He's listening to the ball game in the
living room, so it'll be a while before he gets around to it."
"That's okay," Matthew assured him, "we ain't in no hurry."
"Neither am I," said Chris. "This morning I smoked a couple cigarettes
out behind the Enlisted Men's Club; he smelled tobacco on my breath, so he
practically gave me a short-arm inspection and found half a pack of butts in my
un'erpants; I'm gonna get it along with you."
Matthew nodded sympathetically. "Our mom's never caught us smoking," he
said.
"I hope you know this ain't exactly gonna tickle," Chris said. "My old
man was looking all over for his garrison belt before the game started. Lucky
for you guys I hid it so he'll have to cream us with a light web belt. He
always makes me take a bath before he does it. He said we gotta go upstairs,
get in the bathtub, and be ready when he is. We'd better get our butts topside
and into the tub; there's no point pissin' him off any more than we already
have." The feral energy generated by three stark-naked boys awaiting whippings
was almost electric. The sweet male scent of LIFEBOUY soap, and of boys whose
blood streams were saturated with epinephrine and testosterone permeated the
steamy bathroom. The twins were in the tub; they'd discovered Mrs. Concannon's
bath salts and added half a can to the water. Chris was admiring his nude body
before a full-length wall mirror, ignoring the pink anticipation boner that
poked from his midriff like a shillelagh.
"You'd better get rid of that thing, Concannon," Matthew said with a
knowing grin. "What if your old man comes in and sees it?"
Chris shrugged. "It's no big deal," he said. "My dad sees me with a
boner whenever he pulls the covers off me to wake me up. He knows I jerk off,
too, 'cause Mom tells him to have a talk with me every time she finds a cum
stain in my un'erpants." He took a can of his dad's Burma-Shave from the shelf
and squirted a stream of lather at the boys in the tub. The twins hooted shrilly
and retaliated by splashing him with bath water. Who suspect that by the time
the Seth Thomas clock on the mantelpiece would chime the hour, all three boys
would be clutching red-hot heinies, bellowing like bull calves at gelding time,
and hopping in tight circles about the Concannon's family room? But for the
moment, at least, Matty, Mark and Christopher were boys behaving like boys.
The door cracked open and Christopher's little brother, T.J. (for Thomas,
Jr.) Poked his head into the bathroom. The fifth grader had an unruly mop of
sticky-up red hair, spatulate ears, and an ample sprinkling of freckles across
the bridge of his nose. He still had on his uniform from an afternoon Cub Scout
meeting. "What'cha doin', Chris?" he asked.
"What's it look like I'm doin'?"
"I dunno -- lookin' at your boner in the mirror?"
"It's my boner, ain't it? I'll look at it any time I want."
"Daddy sent me up to tell you he found his leather belt where you hid it
behind the living-room sofa, and he's rubbing it with neat's foot-oil so it'll
sting real bad when he whips you. What's neat's foot-oil, Chris?"
"It's oil from the foot of a neat, dummy."
"And he said to tell you guys it's the bottom of the seventh inning; he's
gonna do it when this inning's over."
"Have Mommy and Sinead left, yet?" Chris asked.
"Don't have a cow, big brother. They've gone to the Bingo at the officers
club, so they won't see your peenie-weenie -- not that you got much to see."
Little T.J. grinned like a wicked pixie and scampered off down the hall.
He was back in twenty minutes to announce, "You guys better get ready,
it's seventh inning stretch. Daddy says you're to report to him in the family
room on the double."
Three naked 13-year-olds pit-a-patted down the stairs, hands clapped over
bare bottoms. The door to the family room was closed; Christopher knocked three
times. "Louder, goddamnit!" Lt. Concannon thundered. Christopher knocked
louder.
"Get in here, guys!"
1st Lieutenant Tom Concannon awaited the boys in his Marine utility
uniform. A heavy leather garrison belt lay coiled like a rattlesnake on a
table behind him; the pungent smell of leather freshly dressed with neat's
foot-oil permeated the room. It took but a second for the Rattigan brothers to
make the connection between the belt and their dimpled buttocks; once that
connection was made, their penises twitched to positions of rigid attention.
The lieutenant inspected the punishment detail critically, his practiced
eye taking in not only their erections, but their heavy breathing, sweaty
foreheads, and other signs of boys under severe stress. "Let's get this over
with," he snapped. "Christopher, you're going first, son. Matthew and Mark,
you boys stand easy while I attend to Chris."
TO BE CONTINUED
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
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