LOBSTERMAN
by
Bobb B Tucker
My dad died unexpectedly in 1989, when I was midway through the seventh
grade, leaving Mom with a mortgage, a stack of unpaid bills, and a twelve year
old kid with an attitude. The following summer shortly after my thirteenth
birthday I was invited by my Uncle Ward and Aunt Maeve to spend July and
August with them and my cousin at their summer home in Rye, New Hampshire.
Uncle Ward taught high school in Boston; he'd been Dad's younger brother.
Mom and I lived in California, 3,000 miles from New England, so I'd never
met my cousin Daire, but once I was settled in at Rye and got to know him, he
turned out to be a really neat kid, although Uncle Ward sometimes had a
difficult time keeping him in line. Daire was fourteen, a redhead, and an avid
fisherman, often seen on the breakwater at Rye Harbor, fishing for flounder with
a hand line, using clams as bait. Sometimes he and I earned pocket change
selling our catch door to door to summer people.
Because Daire and I were pubescent boys with normally functioning
testicles in our scrotums, it wasn't surprising that surging testosterone levels
soon got us into trouble. Midway through the week following the Fourth of July
holiday, we were on the south jetty, fishing for porgies, when we ran out of
fish hooks; I stayed on the breakwater while Daire went to the harbor master's
shanty for more. When he didn't return after an hour, I left our fishing gear
where it was and went home to lunch. Aunt Maeve was in Connecticut that week,
caring for her invalid mother, so we three MacCauley men had the cottage to
ourselves. Daire was sitting at the kitchen table, picking at a bologna
sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup. "Where'joo disappear to?" I asked.
"I'm in trouble, Ben," he said unhappily.
Uncle Ward pursed his lips and said, "Benjamin, about an hour ago your
cousin was caught stealing fish hooks from the harbor master's shop."
"Why'joo do that, Daire?" I asked. "Stealing is dumb."
"He'll find out how dumb it is after supper this evening," my uncle said
ominously. "In the meanwhile, Daire is to consider himself under house arrest
for the rest of the day. I'm afraid you'll have to find another boy to fish
with this afternoon, Ben."
"Are you gonna spank him or something, Unc'a Ward?" I asked, wide-eyed.
"Young fellow, I have no idea how your father handled your discipline, but
Daire was brought up to understand that serious misbehavior is punished
severely. In this household, nothing assures a boy a red-hot bottom more
quickly or certainly than stealing or engaging in behavior that could harm him
or someone else. Since shoplifting a packet of Eagle Claw fish hooks is
stealing, you've just answered your own question."
I blinked up at my uncle with wide, Celtic-blue eyes and asked, "Would'ja
whup my butt if I was to steal something while I'm here, sir?"
"Does a wild bear poop in the buckwheat?" Uncle Ward asked rhetorically.
"The rules of behavior that apply to Daire apply to you as well, mister."
"Okay, that's fair, I guess," I said. Then I screwed up my courage and
asked, "Unc'a Ward, how come you're gonna spank Daire and not me? I was gonna
use some of the fish hooks, too."
"Is that a fact?" my uncle replied. "Are you trying to tell me you need a
spanking, Benjamin? Because, if that's the case, it can be arranged."
"I just thought you oughtta know."
The look on Uncle Ward's face was not unkindly. "I appreciate your
honesty, son," he said. "Were you aware that your cousin planned to steal the
fish hooks?"
"Not exactly," I hedged. "Daire said he was going after more hooks: I
knew he didn't have any money; I guess I should've figured it out for myself."
"You are evading the question. I want a straight yes or no answer from
you, young man: Did you or did you not know that Daire was planning to steal?
Think before answering, because if you say yes, I'll line you up shoulder to
shoulder with him and spank your bare bottoms so hard neither of you will be
able to sit 'til you're old enough to shave."
I winced. "Unc'a Ward," I stammered, "sir, if you think a whuppin' will
do me some good, that'ud be okay by me. I mean, I suspected he wasn't gonna
pay the harbor master, but I wasn't sure. I'll un'erstand if you give me a
whuppin'."
My uncle's face was as long and grim as a Puritan presiding over a witch
trial. "It's almost noon, boys," he said, "we're having baked salmon for
supper; we'll sit down to eat at six o'clock sharp. Dinner will be over and the
dishes done by quarter to seven. At six bells seven P.M. to you landlubbers
Daire will report naked to the living room for a birching that will make his
backside smoke and put a curl in his penis." I giggled nervously at the notion
of my cousin with a curlicued penis.
"Ben, I want you to give serious thought about what happened on the jetty
this morning. If you can honestly say you had no knowledge that Daire was
planning to shoplift, you're off the hook. But if you knew he was going to
steal, you're as guilty as he is and deserve the same punishment he gets. Think
that over carefully between now and supper; I'll leave it to you to decide if
you should be whipped alongside your cousin."
After lunch was over and Daire had been sent to the sleeping loft we
shared to begin his house restriction, I returned to the jetty to retrieve our
fishing gear. I sat for a long time on the gullshit-spattered breakwater,
looking out over the Atlantic toward the Isles of Shoals on the horizon.
Overhead a lone sea gull banked and flew off into the sun.
HA-HA-HAAAAA-HAA-HA-HA it taunted.
"It ain't funny," I hollered. "It's not one goddarn bit funny." But the
bird joined a flock of gulls and was soon lost from view.
I squatted on my haunches to watch a school of cunners dart among seaweed
streamers below the surface of Rye Harbor and wondered morbidly what a whipping
from Uncle Ward would be like. My father had believed spankings hindered a
boy's emotional growth, so I'd managed to reach puberty without once
experiencing his spanking hand or belt across my inelegantly bared ass. But on
my first night at Rye, my cousin informed me that his dad had a quite different
take on corporal punishment.
Daire and I shared a brass four-poster bed in a sleeping loft above the
living room. Because New Hampshire nights -- even in July -- are cold as yak
shit, our loft was heated by a potbellied stove; we slept in flannel nightshirts
under a heavy quilted comforter. As the night wore on and stove wood burned
down to embers, we snuggled together like litter mates, each drawing warmth from
the other's body. I lay still, reveling contentedly in my cousin's youthful
maleness, the measured cadence of his breathing, and his boysmells. Then, I
realized that Daire's penis was erect; I'd never before seen another boy
sexually aroused. For that matter, except in the gang-shower after gym class
and the YMCA swimming pool, I'd never seen another boy naked. Sometimes I
wondered if I held the patent and other guys didn't get erections.
"Daire," I hissed, nudging him with my elbow. "You awake?"
"Yeah."
"Roll over; you got a hard-on as big as a baseball bat."
"S'matter, ain't'choo ever seen a boner before?" he asked sleepily.
"Sure, but yours is poking a hole in my side."
"Maybe it wants to have some fun."
"What kind of fun?" I parried.
My cousin snorted. "Jeezum," he said, "I thought you're s'posed to be
thirteen years old, Ben -- a teenager; I need to yank my crank, for cry-sake.
It's no big deal; all the guys do it."
"I don't even know what you're talkin' about," I retorted.
"Maybe we'd better forget about it, then. If you come back next summer,
your dick will have grown an inch or two and you might even know how to skin
your lizard." "Do you mean masturbate? I learned about that at a sex
education lecture for boys at the YMCA, but I haven't done it; the 'Y' guy
didn't tell us how."
Daire sat up in bed, stretched, and farted. "There are some things a kid
has to learn for himself," he said. "Wait 'til you grow some hair around your
weenie."
"I a'ready have hair there," I snapped. "You saw me nekkid while I was
puttin' on my nightshirt."
"I saw some peach fuzz, a shriveled little peanut, and a pair of BB
balls," he said snidely. "I've seen a bigger cock on a gerbil."
"Screw you. It's nearly five inches long when it's hard," I bragged.
"Come on, Daire, you're older'n me; teach me to masturbate."
"You've really never cum?" Daire asked, "not even during a wet dream?"
"Naw. The YMCA guy told us about wet dreams, but I've never had one."
Daire got up and tiptoed to the potbellied stove to rekindle the fire. "Shhh!"
he whispered, "we can fool around if you want, don't make any noise. If my dad
comes up and finds us havin' a sex orgy, he'll beat our butts' raw."
"Do you still get spanked, Daire?" I asked, "I've never had a spankin'."
"Knowing my old man, I'll bet'cha a million dollars you and me will do
something he'll whip us for before the summer's over. Papa has the notion that
every kid who's old enough to have hair around his balls needs to be whipped at
least twice a year to keep him in line. I got my last spanking on Christmas
day, so I'm about due for one. He'll prob'ly figure since he's whippin' me, he
might's well tan you too and save himself the trouble of doing it later."
"Sorta like a baseball doubleheader?"
"Yeah, kinda like that, only the Red Socks wear uniforms at their
doubleheaders; we'll be balls-nekkid at ours."
"Does it hurt?" I asked. As early as age ten, when my dad was alive, I'd
wonder how well I'd take it if he'd quit sparing the rod and occasionally smack
my little dimpled ass with his calloused hand. Once, when I was eleven, I sassed
my mother at the dinner table in a deliberate attempt to provoke him into
spanking me; all I got for my trouble was an hour-long timeout in the corner.
No sooner had I settled in at Rye and realized that Uncle Wade was as big
and strong as Dad had been, than my boy's fantasy of being spanked naked
over-the-knee by a tall, macho father surrogate rekindled. If anything, the
prospect of getting my first hiding before the summer was over injected a
thrill of adventure into my New England vacation.
"Of course it hurt, dummy," Daire said. "Papa's Bayer ass burns hurt like
a sumbitch. Dint'cha see how big his arm muscle is? My old man was a Marine
captain in the Vietnam war, for cry-eye."
"I won't be a-scairt," I croaked in my reedy little soprano.
"You'll cry like a pussy the moment he takes your un'erpants down and
turns you over his knee," Daire predicted. "My papa has the hardest spanking
hand in N'ampshire." My cousin shucked his nightshirt off over his head and
stood naked in the stove's red glow; a fully erect donnagher thrust from his
groin like the bowsprit on an old-time Yankee clipper ship. It struck me as
ironic that I'd have my spermarche, a young boy's first ejaculation of semen,
and quite possibly my first spanking, during the same vacation. It promised to
be an eventful summer.
"Are you ready for your first lesson in weenie-wankin', Ben?" Daire asked.
I rolled onto my back and smiled up at him. My erection poked the quilt
up like a pup tent. "This isn't gonna hurt, is it?" I posed.
"Heck, no; it'll be like a tickle around your dingus, but a tickle that
you'll really like. Sometimes I jerk off two or three times a day.
"We can't let our cum shoot all over the bedroom, or there'll be pecker
tracks on our nightshirts and sheets. If Mom sees them while she's doin'
laundry, she'll tell my dad and he'll figure out what's going on up here at
night. We'll have to use our mouths to get each other off so we can swallow the
evidence."
"You mean blow-jobs?" I asked with a conspiratorial wink.
"Yeah, you're gonna like it. I'll suck your weiner first to show you how
it's done; then, we'll trade places. If you'd rather, you can roll onto your
belly and I'll fuck you; it's called going up the chocolate highway. The first
time I got butt-fucked it was a tight fit but you'll get used to it after a
couple times.
"Pull your nightshirt off and spread your legs, Cousin."
I pushed the comforter aside, wriggled the flannel garment up my body and
sloughed it off over my head. Daire knelt on the bed next to me; I reveled in
the strength of his warm nude body, his budding maleness, and the honey-sweet
smells of his boysweat and smegma. Unable to restrain myself, I reached out and
touched his blue-veined donnagher; it stiffened and crooked upward in the shape
of a banana. I spread my legs wide and shivered with delight at the electric
sensation when his hands found my dingus and began to stroke as if he were
petting a kitten. Blood rushed to engorge the organ, which twitched, then
hardened like a railroad spike. I felt certain my penis-skin would split up the
side like a knockwurst left to broil too long in the oven.
With the tip of his index finger, Daire tickled my glans meatus, the pink
mushroom-shaped cockhead at the tip of my penis; involuntary tremors of sexual
arousal began. Heat exploded from my cock-and-balls; I experienced a flush of
raw sexual energy that I'd never known before. My nuts drew up in my scrotum
like a pair of prized immies in a marble sac.
My cousin buried his face between my lanky Viking legs; I felt a
delightfully warm dampness the length of my cockshank and realized I was inside
him. With practiced movements he ran his tongue back and forth over the shaft
of my erection, arousing me from my frenum, the Y-shaped underside of my glans,
to the fuzzy base of my shaft, where penis and underbelly connect.
A more experienced boy would have withdrawn momentarily to postpone his
ejaculation, but I was thirteen-years-old, had a humongous boner, and had no
intention of putting off my climax. Daire's practiced tongue danced over my
penis, stimulated nerve endings, and prompted my spermatic reservoirs to
contract violently sending a thirteen-year-long accumulation of boycum gushing
from my boy-organ into my cousin's throat.
My cousin had the presence of mind to cover my mouth while I was
ejaculating so my excited squeals wouldn't wake Uncle Ward, asleep on the floor
below us.
TO BE CONTINUED
