THE BATPADDLE
by
Bobb B. Tucker
CHAPTER ONE
MIKEY KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT
THE STORY SO FAR: Brothers Ben and Mikey Rattigan play hooky with Shannon
Brantley and Shannon's twin brothers, Daire and Hunter. Their widowed mother
gets a call from Jack Brantley, father of the Brantley boys, offering to include
Ben and Mikey when he spanks his sons that evening. Mr. Brantley is a
Pittsburgh police lieutenant, a family friend, and the Rattigan boys' mentor.
Before the brothers leave to keep their appointments with their Uncle Jack,
their mother reminds them to put on clean underpants - not a good sign for boys
about to get their first spankings.
Jack Brantley, his wife and three boys, lived in a Brownstone town house on a
ridge across the Allegheny River from downtown Pittsburgh. As Ben and Mikey
turned up the front walk, a whistle-blast from a tugboat towing a coal barge
under the Sixth Street Bridge rent the night air. The boys paused at the door
to muster their courage. "Ben," the younger brother said, "can we wait a minute
before we go in? I ain't ready."
Ben glanced at his TIMEX. "We're already five minutes late," he protested.
"I know, but I gotta humongous hard-on, and I'll bet'cha Unc'a Jack's gonna
whup us bare-ass. Why else would Mom make us put on clean un'erpants?"
Ben knocked on the door. "I have one, too," he confided. "Unc'a Jack's seen
our weenies at the YMCA pool millions of times, plus he has three kids of his
own, so he knows about boys and boners. Instead of gettin' our bowels in an
uproar, why'n't we make a big adventure out of getting our first hidings?"
Mikey looked skeptical. "Are you crazy, boy?" he asked, "If I wanted an
adventure, I'd go to Disney World."
The door opened; Jack Brantley stood in the doorframe, wearing a sweat suit
and looking like a college football player, twenty years past his salad days.
"Good evening, boys," he said gravely. "You're right on time."
The brothers craned up at their mentor with frightened blue eyes. "Hi,
Unc'a Jack," Mike blurted; his lower lip trembled as if it were made of Jell-O.
"Well, come on in," the lieutenant motioned the boys inside. "You both look
a bit peaked. Are you not feeling well?"
Mike's nose twitched as it always did when he was about to tell a lie. "I'm
okay, sir," he said.
"Do you understand that your mom sent you guys to me for old-fashioned,
pants-off spankings, Michael?"
"Yes, sir, and I ain't exactly lookin' forward to it."
"I should think not. I understand that you cut classes today, although your
mother specifically forbade you to do so - is that correct?" The culprits
shuffled their feet and invoked their Fifth Amendment rights to remain silent.
"In that case, let's proceed to the basement and Join Shannon and the twins, who
are waiting for us in the Show and Tell Room, the room where spankings are
customarily applied to the bare bottoms of misbehaved Brantley boys."
Ben thrust out his lip in a sulk. "Is that how were gonna get it, Unc'a
Jack - on our naked butts?" he asked.
The ex-Marine scratched his chin and said, "You and Michael will be punished
the same as my boys, mister, because I want this to be a significant experience
for all five of you - not just for the Brantley brats. If not being spanked
naked had been among your priorities, you wouldn't have played hooky, would you?
You guys both know the way to the basement, so about face and forward march."
Mrs. Brantley was washing dinner dishes when her husband marched the Rattigan
brothers past the kitchen door. Mikey flashed her his most engagingly boyish
smile; she smiled back, but her mouth turned down rather than up. The procession
filed down the stairs and stopped before an olive-drab door. Over the lintel a
hand-painted cardboard sign bore the legend:
SHOW AND TELL ROOM
- NO TALKING -
BOYS MUST:
(1) KNOCK AND ENTER
(2) DROP PANTS AND SHORTS
(3) BEND OVER
Uncle Jack pushed the door open. "This is it," he said. "Keep your chins
up and your sphincters shut tight." He propelled Ben into the room with a nudge
between the shoulder blades. "Don't drag your dicks, boys."
Ben couldn't resist a touch of gallows humor. "I wish I was hung that
good," he muttered.
Anxiety erections firmed and throbbed in the Rattigan boys' Jockey shorts;
their buttocks tingled in anticipation of a strapping. A single fly-speckled
bulb dangling from the ceiling by a frayed cord lit the room. An old-fashioned
electric clock - reading fifteen minutes past ten - hung on the wall. The
three Brantley brothers knelt on the floor, as naked as stewing hens. "Your
mother wants your skinny bottoms spanked blue for skipping school," Jack
Brantley said to the Rattigans. "And I've spoken with your principal, who asked
me to remind you guys that you are due in his office the first thing Monday
morning to be paddled. Your bottoms will have the weekend to cool down before
you get it again."
"Jeezum, Daddy, do we really gotta get it again in school?" Shannon whined.
"When Mr. Steadman paddles a kid, he does it just before gym class, so all the
guys see the kid's bare ass in the shower."
"I expect the deterrent effect of a red-hot fanny on a shower-roomful of
naked middle school boys is considerable," the cop said with a tight smile.
"You three Brantleys, get to your feet and line up facing me. Ben and Michael,
take off your clothes and stand with them."
Mikey chewed nervously on a wad of bubble gum. "Can I keep my un'erpants
on, Unc'a Jack?" he begged. "I gotta boner - I mean, erection."
Shannon rose to his feet, paying scant attention to nearly six inches of
rock-hard boycock angling up from his pubis as if his redcap were trying to
touch his bellybutton. A lanky fourteen-year-old, he was the oldest of the five
hooky players.
He had a head of unruly red hair, spatulate ears, and a face that looked as if
someone had sprinkled freckles over it with a cayenne pepper shaker. "Nobody's
in'erested in your little weenie, Rattigan," he sidemouthed.
"Oh, yeah? I got the biggest dick of any boy in sixth grade gym class,"
Mikey retorted proudly. "Ask Daire and Hunter if there's a kid in the showers
with a bigger one than mine."
Lt. Brantley heaved a long exasperated sigh. "Michael," he said, "by playing
hooky today, you and Ben earned yourselves the same punishment my boys are about
to get, so you will take your shorts off like the others. We're all guys here,
son. Each of us has a penis, and our penises all get hard. And unless your
brother has a Tootsie Roll stashed in his pants pocket, you aren't the only
Rattigan boy with an erection. As for Shannon and the twins, as you can see,
just a mention of the Show and Tell Room is enough to get their scrotums itchy
and their peckers randy.
"It's normal to have lead in your pencil under the circumstances, Michael;
your penis is hard because you're anticipating a spanking, your imagination is
running amuck, and your glands are secreting hormones into your bloodstream to
prepare your body for the ordeal. You can thank the male hormone, testosterone,
for your erection. Testosterone is secreted by your gonads - the two little
round doohickies hanging behind your penis; that's why boys get monster hard-ons
while they're waiting to be spanked: They're scared, their 'nads produce
testosterone, and their penises rise to the occasion."
Resigned to a leathering,
Ben pulled off his shirt and and thumbed down his pants and shorts. "Come on,
Mike, let's get it over with," he urged his little brother.
As mortified as a teenager caught masturbating by his mother, Mikey pulled
his T-shirt over his head and slipped out of his pants, grumbling all the while.
"Okay," he said, pulling off his undershorts and trying to ignore the erection
that popped out like a Jack-in-the-box, "we're 'pantsed and drawered, Unc'a Jack
- whadda we do now?"
Facing a ragtag file of naked, tumescent boys, Jack Brantley felt like a
prisoner in front of a military firing squad, so like rifle barrels were the
five anxiety erections pointing straight at him. He took a Marine Corps
garrison belt from an armoire and snapped it against his thigh. At the sound,
five stark-naked boys stiffened as if a deranged nurse were taking their rectal
temps with the pointy end of an Icicle. The belt had been slit lengthwise with
a carton cutter to make a Scottish-style boy's tawse with two spanking strips on
the business end. Lt. Brantley laid the strap on an Army cot and removed a
stethoscope and thermometer from the armoire. He filled a glass jar with
rubbing alcohol, took down a Ping-Pong paddle down from its hook, and said to
Mikey, "Here, boy, hang onto the Caped Crusader 'til I'm ready for him." Mikey
rimpled his face and held the instrument out from his body as if it were a
snake. The paddle was painted garish yellow; a Batman decal, intended to appeal
to the imaginations of twelve-year-old males, decorated the striking surface.
That attended to, the policemen scrutinized the naked, goose-bumpy boys and
shook his head. "I don't believe I've ever seen a cockier crew of scalawags,"
he said. "I am hereby convening a General Court Martial and finding you junior
gyrines guilty as hell of playing hooky and disobeying your parents. You're
each sentenced to receive twelve hard zingers on the bare bottom. The twins and
Mikey will get theirs from the paddle over my lap. After I've finished with
them, Shannon and Ben will get the tawse. Have you anything to say before we
begin, boys?"
Mikey had resolved to take his punishment like a man, but he decided it
wouldn't hurt to play on his mentor's sympathies. He put on his most woebegone
face and said, "Unc'a Jack, won't'cha listen to our side of the story? Please?
We're sorry for what we did."
Jack Brantley tousled the boy's hair and tipped back his chin to look
squarely into his frightened blue eyes. "You are sorry you were caught,
Michael," he scolded. "Believe me, mister, you're about to become a whole lot
sorrier." He turned Mikey by the shoulders and listened with his stethoscope to
his heart and lungs. "Everything seems in order," he said. "Your heart's
pounding hard, but that's because you're scared." He checked the twins'
heartbeats; Daire and Hunter were identical 12-year-olds with delicately crafted
features and Celtic-blue eyes that reflected all of boyhood's rascality; then,
he repeated the procedure on the older boys. "You're all fit as fleas," he
pronounced. "First, I'll check your temps - then, I'll get down to serious
boyspanking."
Ben stooped for a closer look at the tawse; his face was the color of a dead
boy on an embalmer's work table. "I'm scared, Unc'a Jack," he admitted with
boyish frankness.
"You'll do just fine," the cop said gruffly. "You and your brother have
cajones to spare in your scrotums, and you're smart enough to learn from your
mistakes. What you guys need is someone to crack down on you every damned time
you pull a stunt like you did today."
The boy brushed an unruly cowlick from his eyes. "It was a dumb thing to
do," he admitted, "but I feel better now that I've figured out why we're gettin'
it butt-naked instead of through our shorts. You figure we're gonna hate
gettin' Bayer Ass Burns so bad we'll quit playing hooky because we know what'll
happen if we're caught again."
Jack Brantley flexed the strap. "Think of this as a shepherd's staff, Ben,"
he said. "It keeps boys from straying too far off the straight and narrow path.
Knowing the tawse is here in case it's needed should give you and Mike something
to think about the next time you're tempted to get into devilment. If you guys
agree, I'll have a word with your mother and offer to apply it to your cabooses
whenever you overstep the line and need to be set right."
Ben winced and mulled over his mentor's offer. "That'ud be cool, Unc'a
Jack," he decided. "Me and Mike get away with more stuff than we should. Mom
puts us on room restrictions and does the best she can, but we can be little
pricks sometimes. She said she wishes some guy would come along and make us
behave better."
The mentor peered down from his full six-foot-two vantage point and said,
"Then, she'll get her wish, because I'm the guy who can do it."
"Hey, what about me?" Mikey objected. "Don't I get a say? This concerns my
butt, too, ya know."
"Of course, Michael; let's hear your thoughts on the matter," the lieutenant
said in a gentle voice.
The twelve-year-old hung his head and said, "I don't think a boy should get
the paddle unless he does something real bad. Sometimes you only have to talk
to a kid to make him behave. But other times, when he won't listen, or when he
does something serious like shoplifting or stealing from parking meters, you
gotta teach him a lesson or he'll keep right on doin' it. That's when he needs
a paddling. So I guess me and Ben could use a good spankin' for what we did
today, Unc'a Jack."
"I guess so, too," the cop said, retrieving the paddle from Mikey. "Are you
ready, boy?"
Mike's eyes grew large and round. He swallowed hard and asked, "Am I gonna
be first, sir?" He was acutely aware of his mentor's rugged maleness. How many
times had he laid in bed at night listening to his brother's soft breathing,
fingering his penis, and fantasizing about being spanked over-the-knee by Uncle
Jack? And how often had he and Ben role played spanking games with one brother
assuming the role of a boy with his pants and Jockeys down being spanked by
Uncle Jack?
Although he didn't fully realize it - and would have denied it had it been
pointed out to him, in his own way, Mikey Rattigan was looking forward to a
paddling. For ninety seconds - the time needed to apply twelve swats to the
naked buttocks of a sixth grade boy - it would be just a crying boy, a big
ex-Marine, and the Batman paddle. If a legate from the governor's office had
walked through the door at that moment, waving a reprieve, Mikey would have
declined it and taken his medicine.
The policeman shook down the thermometer, handed it to Mike, and said,
"Here - put this in like a good fellow."
When Mikey popped it into his mouth, the Brantley boys giggled like seventh
graders at a co-ed pajama party. "Dummy, you put it in the wrong end," Daire
snickered lewdly. "You just put a rectal thermometer in your mouth, Mikey. I bet
it don't taste too good." Mikey spit out the thermometer; his face as wrinkled
as an old dried prune.
Jack Brantley clapped him on the shoulder. "Take it easy, Mike," he said,
"I bought the thermometer today after talking to Mr. Steadman and realizing a
boyspanking session is in order this evening. I also dressed the tawse with
neat's-foot oil so it'll be supple when I use it on Shannon and Ben. You're in
good hands, mister."
"Heck, I know that, sir. I'd rather you do it than anyone else - honest."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," the lieutenant said dryly. He sat on
the Army cot and beckoned for Mikey to approach. "Mike, you're to put the
thermometer where it belongs, then stretch out over my lap," he instructed.
"And do try get it in the right hole this time, old son."
The culprit's ears reddened, he inserted the thermometer in his anus and
sprawled awkwardly over his mentor's lap, aware of the turgid penis sandwiched
between his belly and Jack Brantley's sweat pants. "What happens now?" he asked.
"Relax, Michael," the cop said soothingly, "it takes three minutes for a
temperature reading to register - a hundred-and-eighty seconds. You're to count
slowly to a hundred-and-eighty and let me know when it's time for the
thermometer to come out and the spanking to begin."
The boy craned up at his mentor and pulled an unhappy face. "I ain't in no
partic'lar hurry," he said.
"And, Mike, you're to get a good grip the iron bar at the foot of the cot
and hold on for dear life. Once the paddling starts, if either hand leaves the
bar, I'll assume you're reaching back to cover your tail; each time you do that,
you'll get an extra swat - so don't do it. Put your hands together, rest your
chin on your knuckles, and look straight ahead. Do not twist around to see
what's going on behind you."
"Should I start counting, now, sir?"
"You may begin."
Mikey popped his bubble gum, checked his boner, and watched a daddy longlegs
crawl up the wall. Outside the window, half-a-dozen pigeons strutted like
sentinels on the rim of the window well, coo-cooing contentedly. "One . . .
Two . . . Three . . ."
"Count to yourself, Michael."
Three minutes passed before the boy announced, "It's time, sir. I counted
real slow to a hunnert -and-eighty."
He felt the thermometer removed from his rectum. "Your temp is right on the
button," the policeman said, "ninety-eight point six degrees."
"Heck, I coulda tol'ja that," Mikey retorted smugly.
Uncle Jack dropped the thermometer into a glass of alcohol and said,
"Hunter, you might's well be next. Rinse the thermometer, wipe it, shake it
down, put it where the sun don't shine, and count to one hundred-and-eighty."
"Eww, Daddy, it's been in Mikey's ass," the twin objected.
"That's why you're to rinse it with alcohol and wipe it on cotton batting,
dummy. Don't just stand there - do it."
"Yes, sir."
While Hunter wiped the thermometer and inserted it between his buttocks, his
dad turned his attention to the naked pre-teen over his lap. Fear and
anticipation reflected in Mikey's eyes. The cop's hand rested gently on the
boy's goose-pimply rump. "Relax, son," the lieutenant said, "this is going to
hurt you more than it hurts me."
"That wasn't funny, Unc'a Jack," Mikey grumbled.
"Are you about ready, Mike?"
"Yeah - let 'er rip." Mike's molars gritted so hard a rasp of tooth enamel
grinding on tooth enamel sent chills coursing along the spines of the boys
awaiting their turns. They gaped in rapt fascination at Mikey's freckled ass as
the paddle began its downward arc; it landed with a staccato TWACK! that evoked
a anguished yowl and a spray of yellow mucous from the victim's nose. Mikey
kicked like a billy-goat; a wad of Fleers Double Bubble Gum, the size of a 1"
shooter-marble, popped from his mouth and landed on his brother's underpants,
laying crumpled on in a corner where Ben had discarded them. Then, Michael
Rattigan began to cry. His wails were shrill, heart-rending, and plaintive, but
they failed to sway Jack Brantley from his avuncular duty.
"It hurts, Unc'a Jack! It hurts!" the lad wailed in a piping soprano. He
thrashed and squirmed, but the Batpaddle connected with monotonous regularity, a
fresh whack every ten seconds. Early in his ordeal, Mikey's ass blushed pinker
than the pecker on a Celtic boy; as the lieutenant settled into a steady rhythm,
pink transmuted to rosy red, then to crimson, finally to candy-apple scarlet.
The four boys queued up for their spankings exchanged terrified glances;
their naked bodies were whiter than spit in a snowbank. Pigeons on the window
well fluttered off, fed up with noisy neighbors.
Again, the paddle connected with Mikey's freckled behind. He let out an
agonized wail and bucked like a mule. For the first time in his
twelve-year-long lifetime, Mikey Rattigan ejaculated - on the lieutenant's sweat
pants. He'd had a humongous erection since before he and his brother knocked on
the Brantley's front door; the sight of the three Brantley boys, waiting naked
for their comeuppances, further aroused him. Add the stimulation of an erect
penis rubbing Uncle Jack's thigh as he twitched and bucked in pain, and the
stage was set for Mikey's spermarche, a pubescent boy's first ejaculation of
seminal fluid. Uncle Jack could scarcely have been unaware of what had happened,
but Mikey's spanking continued as if nothing was amiss. The punishment lasted
two minutes - twelve swats at ten second intervals. The moment it was over, the
boy sprang from Lieutenant Brantley's lap, held his incandescent butt, hopped up
and down as if he were doing jumping-jacks in gym class. He wailed through
tightly clenched teeth; his facial muscles contorted in exquisite agony. His
boy-sized cock-and-balls flip-flopped like an airport wind sock on a windy day.
Uncle Jack surveyed a saucer-sized stain on his sweat pants and shook his
head. "Mikey, boy, it looks to me like you enjoyed that," he said.
Mikey clapped his hands protectively over his beleaguered bottom. "N...
n... no, sir!" he hollered.
"You didn't like it?"
"Heck, no - not one bit!"
Satisfied, Uncle Jack nodded. "I hope you learned a lesson, Michael," he
said.
"Yes, sir - I did!"
"Don't stand there like a bump one a log, boy, there are towels in the
armoire. Hand me one and clean yourself up." The cop skinned his sweat pants
down nonchalantly. He had on a BIKE supporter underneath. "Stop staring,
Michael. Haven't you seen a man in a jockstrap before?
"Hunter, take the thermometer from your rear end and give it to Daire -
then, take Mikey's place across my lap."
TO BE CONCLUDED
