HIROHITO'S REVENGE
A BOYSPANKING VIGNETTE
by
Bobb B. Tucker
Copyright 2004 by Bobb B. Tucker. All rights reserved. No part of this
account may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, electronic or
mechanical, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
The Japs attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941, when I was in the fifth grade. I
could hardly have known then that three years later, as a eighth grader, I'd get
my first whipping as a direct result of Hirohito's bellicosity. The way I
figure it, if we hadn't been fighting Japan and Germany,President Roosevelt
wouldn't have authorized war bond drives to encourage Americans to help finance
the war. And if he hadn't done that, movie stars wouldn't have been recruited
to make personal appearances on courthouse steps throughout America to pitch
war bond sales. On Friday, May 31, 1944, my boyhood idol, Roy Rogers, made such
an appearance in my home town in the Boston suburbs. There was a problem,
however. Roy was scheduled to ride Trigger down Massachusetts Avenue at 1
P.M.; school let out at 3 P.M. To complicate matters, the school notified
parents that no student would be excused to see him. Boys who cut afternoon
classes would be dealt with by the gym coach the following day in the boys'
locker room. We all knew that meant lining up in our jockstraps so the coach
could line us up and give us whacks with a wet tennis shoe.
I tried over breakfast that Friday to cajole my mom into writing a note
asking that I be excused to keep a dental appointment, but I might as well have
talked to the wall. Naturally, that didn't dissuade a die-hard Roy Rogers fan;
I cut classes without a note. And just as naturally, I was caught. By the time
I got home, the school secretary had called my dad to tell him I'd missed all my
afternoon classes.
My father, Christopher M. Rattigan, M.D., was a pediatrician with his office
in our home. Immediately after dinner he marched me to his office, sat me down,
and glowered at me from across the desk. "You were truant despite being told by
your mother not to leave school until after the last class?" It was more an
accusation than a question.
I gulped and felt the urgent tingle in the back of my scrotum that plagued
me whenever I was in trouble. "Yes, sir," I blurted, boylike. "All the guys
did it." In fact, five boys from my class played hooky with me that day.
My father's lips whitened. "I see," he said. "That constitutes direct
disobedience of your mother's order, mister. You know there will be
consequences to pay?"
"Daddy, am I gonna get a spankin'?" I asked in the reedy soprano of a boy on
the cusp of puberty.
"Do you think you need one?" he parried.
I shrugged. "You're the doctor," I said. "It's up to you."
"In that case, Mikey, that's exactly what we'll do."
My nose wrinkled like a rabbit's. "Oh," I said. "Or, maybe you could give
me a darn good talkin' to. I bet'cha that would teach me a lesson."
Dad made a steeple of his fingers, considered the option, and shook his
head. "No," he said in a voice that left no room for argument, "I think not.
You made your bed; now, lie in it."
"Yes, sir, Am I gonna get it now, or at bedtime?" I asked meekly.
My dad was thorough and punctual man. With a glance at his watch, he stood
and said, "It's nearly eight o'clock, Michael. You're to go to your room and
crack your schoolbooks for two solid hours. At quarter 'til ten, you'll shower
and use the toilet. By ten o'clock, with your bladder empty, you'll report,
naked, to the rec room, where punishments are administered. That will allow you
one half hour to sit in your birthday suit and think about what you did before I
come down to attend to you. Have you any questions?"
"No, sir," I said, "I don't guess. But, can I ask a big favor?"
"What's on your mind, son?"
"I was wonderin' you know I had my thirteenth birthday a couple months
ago. I'm not a little kid any more."
"I don't think for a moment that you are."
"Dad, there are a couple hairs growing around my cock I mean penis if
you look real close, you can see them. And my balls are getting big. I had my
first wet dream a couple weeks back."
"Your mother told me there were stains on your sheets and pajama pants.
You're beginning to change from a little boy into a teenager, mister," my dad
said with a hint of paternal pride.
I puffed my chest out manfully. "Yeah," I said, "I know. That's what I
want to talk to you about. Hardly any of the guys in junior high still get
spanked; they get it with a strap ya know what I mean?"
My dad stifled an indulgent smile. "If I were a betting man," he said, "I'd
wager that you and Kevin and your little buddies are planning a skinny-dippin'
excursion to Butterfield's Pond tomorrow. Strap marks on your heinder will show
you're a macho guy, much too worldly to be spanked over your daddy's knee. Am I
correct?"
My ears reddened. "Yeah, kinda," I admitted.
"Well, you're going to your wish, buddy boy," Dad said. "Even before you
asked, I'd decided to give you your first whipping tonight. You yourself
pointed out that you're a strapping, healthy boy with peach-fuzz around your
nuts. But you won't like what I have in mind for you tonight, mister; you won't
like it at all." I nodded glumly.
"Go to your room and start your homework; keep an eye on your watch and
report to the rec room naked and ready for a whipping at ten o'clock. You'll be
punished at ten thirty, sharp. Keep your chin up and show me there's a pair of
balls in your scrotum."
My brother, Kevin, and I were Irish twins; that is, I was little more than a
year older than hewas. I was in eighth grade, Kevin was the terror of the sixth
grade. I'd gotten a TIMEX for my birthday, and checked it periodically while
confined to my room, struggling to make sense of eighth grade geometry. At
quarter 'til ten I undressed, showered, peed, and commenced the interminable
trudge from the bedroom I shared with my brother to the basement rec room that
Daddy favored for administering corporal punishment. Family tradition dictated
that a rec room-bound boy make the walk without Jockey shorts or a towel to
preserve his modesty. Concern for his sons' dignity was not among our father's
priorities. I was in luck; Mom was nowhere in sight as I scampered along the
first floor hallway, trying to cover my dingus with one hand, the crack of my
fanny with the other.
Kevin, ever the smartass, let out a wolf whistle as I passed the kitchen
table where he was doing homework. "Hey, Mikey, how come you got a hard-on?" he
asked his annoyingly squeaky kid brother voice.
"Shut up, asshole," I retorted, "it's none ya goddang bidness."
"You're weird, Mikey," Kevin said.. "You're the only kid I know who gets a
boner when he gets swats." Kevin had a point; since the fourth grade, an
unwanted erection popped up whenever my dad took me to the basement to spank me;
it remained until he'd finished and I'd stopped hollering, rubbing my ass, and
hopping in circles. My brother knew that; because of the closeness of our
ages, we often got into trouble together and were punished together. (Only
because we went to different schools was he not with me when I played hooky that
day.) Our dad believed the most memorable spankings were those applied to the
culprit's little bare heinder, so no detail of my male physiognomy eluded dear
little Kevin's scrutiny.
Kevin shook his finger in my face like Dad did when he was lecturing one of
his boys. "I hope Daddy tears you a new butt-hole in the rec room," he
shrilled. "You've gotten too big for your britches, young man."
To make his point, he gave my pecker a tweak; I yelped like a dog with a
stepped-on tail. "HOMO!" I yelled. "HELP! PERVERT! LEGGO MY COCK, YOU
QUEER!"
The door to Dad's study flew open; he stood in the doorframe, nostrils
flaring, glowering at his boys. "What is going on here?" he demanded.
"This little faggot grabbed my weiner, Dad," I said.
Dad's expression did not bode well for my brother. "Is that true, Kevin?
Did you touch your rother's penis?"
Too late, Kevin realized he'd misjudged our dad's tolerance for boyish
shenanigans. "I was only foolin', Daddy," he explained lamely, "I just wanted
to make him holler."
Dad heaved an exasperated sigh. "Kevin," he said, "in just about half an
hour, your brother will assume the bottoms-up position in the rec room while I
apply a dozen snaps of a strap to his bare buttocks. He will holler loud enough
that neighbors two blocks away will know one of Dr. Rattigan's boys is taking
his medicine. Why you chose to interject yourself into a situation that did not
concern you is beyond me."
Kevin said, "Aw, Daddy, I was teasin' Mike about his hard-on that's all."
My father put on his pediatrician's hat. "Your brother has an anticipation
boner, son. When a boy is scared, his testicles secrete testosterone into his
bloodstream to prepare his body for a stressful situation. Testosterone is what
gives us males erections. Mikey is anticipating his first whipping, and he's
frightened; under the circumstances, his tumescence is normal."
"He oughtn't have called me a homo."
"He didn't call you a name 'til after you'd started the ruckus," our father
reminded him.
"I couldn't help it, sir; it was funny; his peenie-weenie looked like a
little crooked cigar."
"You're getting entirely too big for your britches, young man. I wonder how
funny you'll think it is when you and Mikey line up in the rec room for Bayer
Ass Burns," my dad posed. "Since you're determined to meddle in someone else's
business, you'll be included in the spanking detail with your brother, soldier.
Take off your clothes, fold them, and lay them neatly on the kitchen table.
Then, I want to see butt-holes, elbows and foot soles as you guys disappear down
the cellar stairs."
If I'd expected my kid brother to try to talk his way out of a hot bottom, I
was disappointed; he pulled off sweat-pants, T-shirt and Jockeys as casually as
if he were preparing for bed. I've sometimes wondered if at some level of
consciousness Kevin tweaked my penis knowing it would instigate a ruckus that
would end with him paying a rec room visit himself; boys sometimes march to
strange drummers. "You guys are to stand with your noses pressed to the wall,"
Dad said as we filed past him and down the stairs. "You know what you did
wrong, so we'll dispense with the customary lecture and get straight to the seat
of the matter when I come down."
Half an hour later, my brother and I stood with our noses against the wall
and heard Dad's footfalls on the stairs. Next thing we knew, the door opened
and he was standing behind us. "You guys are lucky I'm not giving you the
treatment I got from your grandfather when I was your age," he said. "Grandpa
marched me out to a birch thicket, handed me his penknife, and made me select
and cut the switch he used on me. 'Make it as long as your leg and as big
around as your dick,'" he said. "Believe me, boys, nothing stings like birch on
the bare." Kevin and I craned over our shoulders to see Daddy looming above us,
carrying a pillow and looking like a hangman.
"Sir," I chirruped, "are you gonna cream me first, or Kevin?"
"Are we getting ants our pants, Michael?" my dad asked solicitously.
"No, sir, we are not wearing pants, but we would like to get it over with."
"Take down the rabbit gun from over the fireplace, please."
"Jeez, Daddy, did you change your mind and decide to shoot us instead of
spank us?" I took down the single-shot bolt action Remington .22 that Dad used
to shoot the rabbits that periodically invaded our Victory garden.
"That idea is not without merit," he said dryly. "But since I claim you
guys as income tax deductions, I suppose I'd better let you stick around a bit
longer." He removed its leather sling from the gun and handed it to me. "This
is the heaviest strap in the house, Mikey. A dozen snaps from it across your
little freckled rumbleseat will teach you to obey school rules and mind your
mother."
"Yes, sir," I said. "I reckon about two whacks from that thing would do the
job."
"Your brother is young enough to spank over my knee, so I'll attend to him
first. While that's going on, you're to stand at the workbench and dress the
rifle sling with neat's foot-oil so it'll be supple and snappy when it pops your
behind."
I winced and said, "Aw, Daddy, it's gonna hurt real bad, isn't it?"
"Ayep. you won't like it one bit, Michael. There's neat's foot-oil on
the shelf and clean rags under the bench; work the oil into the leather with a
cotton cloth using circular motions as if you were spit-shining a shoe." An
electric wall clock read 10:30 P.M. Dad beckoned for Kevin to approach. "Come
here, boy," he said. "Do you understand why you're being punished?"
My brother thought for a moment. "For pulling Mikey's cock?"
Dad suppressed a smile and said, "Inappropriate sex play is part of the
reason, but you're being spanked for sticking your nose into a matter that
didn't concern you, and for teasing your brother."
"How many swats will I get?" Mikey's liquid blue eyes gazed steadily up at
his father.
Our dad pursed his lips. "You're a big, husky twelve-year-old ," he
speculated. "You'll get twenty wallops; I expect your full cooperation. Get
ready, please."
Kevin's hands flew back to cover his bottom, his penis twitched, then rose
like Lazarus looming from the grave, and he nearly swallowed the wad of Fleers
Double Bubble Gum he was chewing. "Twenty, sir?" he asked doubtfully.
"That can be upwardly adjusted if you feel twenty won't get the message
across," Daddy said.
"Oh, no, Daddy," Kevin blurted, "I reckon twenty whacks will do the job."
Daddy sat on a straight-backed chair, placed the pillow across his lap, and
drew my little brother to him. "The pillow isn't for your comfort, mister," he
said. "Sometimes, when a boy's tail is getting fanned, he bucks, and friction
on his penis triggers a discharge of sperm. When that happens for the first
time, he's said to be having his spermarche. Your brother's spermarche occurred
in his sleep the other night; the pillow is to protect my slacks in case your
gun is loaded, too."
Kevin thrust out his lower lip and asked, "What am I s'posed to do now,
Daddy?"
"Stand with your legs between mine so you won't be able to kick; bend over
my leg and present your behind; place your free hand in the small of your back.
Then grit your teeth. It will last about two minutes, Kevin, the time it takes
to count to one hundred and twenty. You can stand that much pain."
My brother turned his head to watch a pair of pigeons on the ledge of the
window well. Daddy pressed his free arm into the small of his back, making it
impossible for the naked boy to cover his fanny. He then rested his spanking
hand on my brother's bottom and gave it a gentle pat. Kevin's ass rimpled in
anticipation of imminent pain; his fists clenched and his pug nose crinkled.
Quicker than shit through a castor-oiled schoolboy, Daddy's hand rose, descended
with a blur, and landed with a resounding TWACK! that raised an angry red welt
on my brother's buttocks. An expression of horrified amazement crossed Kevin's
face; bubble gum popped from his mouth; stringy yellow mucous poured from his
nose to cake on his upper lip. He tried to squirm, but his legs and free arm
were pinioned. He craned back at his father and pleaded, "Daddy, give me just
one more chance. I promise I'll be a good boy."
Without missing a lick, our father, ever the pediatrician, announced,
"There's moderate ecchymosis of your gluteus, Kevin. In layman's terms, that
means your butt is beginning to bruise. When you and Mikey are at Butterfield's
Pond tomorrow, your skinny-dippin' buddies will see first-hand what happens to a
Rattigan boy who misbehaves. Since most of your little pals are my patients, at
one time or another, I've recommended to their parents that a few judicious
whacks on the bare fanny works wonders for lads who present with behavior
problems. I expect the boys for whom I've prescribed hidings will be gratified
to know that the doctor practices what he preaches." Our dad spanked while he
spoke, peppering his words with sharp whacks to his son's rapidly reddening
rump.
It's amazing how much noise a twelve-year-old makes when he's being spanked.
I stuffed fingers into my ears to muffle my brother's plaintive wails; even the
pigeons on the window well fluttered off in search of quieter neighbors. Twenty
swats, meted out one every six seconds, take two minutes to apply. If Kevin
resolved to take his punishment like a man, once he found himself
peckerside-down over Dad's lap with his freckly ass grinning and his little
peanut pressing the pillow, his resolution disappeared with the first staccato
crack of hand on buttock. My brother reacted like young males everywhere when
being corporally corrected -- with wails lusty enough to rattle window panes and
blurted promises of future exemplary behavior.
At last it was over; Kevin leapt to his feet clutching his incandescent
bottom and hopped in tight circles, bellowing like a bull-calf at gelding time.
I leaned back against the wall and shook, unable to take my eyes from his
lollipop-red butt or the wilted hard-on thrusting from his groin like a
bowsprit. Dad pulled the pillowcase off the pillow and said, "It looks like two
Rattigan boys had their spermarches this week. My sons are growing up." A
telltale stain on the pillowcase looked like something that had spilled from a
bottle of Wildroot Creme Oil Hair Tonic. Daddy looked me up and down as
critically as if viewing an illustration in Gray's Anatomy. "One boy down and
one to go," he said.
I handed my father the rifle sling and could feel the testicles draw up in
my scrotum. "Dad, I'm only a kid," I reminded him.
"Duly noted," my father said. "Mikey, you're to unroll the wrestling mat
and lie on your back with your arms at right angles to the rest of your body."
"You mean the Jesus position?"
My dad frowned. "I doubt if Father McCarthy would approve of your analogy,"
he allowed.
"Yes sir." I unrolled the gym mat that Mom and Dad had given Kevin and me
for Christmas and stretched out on my back with my arms out at my sides. Kevin
stopped hopping and stood with his legs spraddled, his belly pressed to the
wall, wailing like a catamount.
Dad tossed me the the pillow and said, "Here, son put this under your
head."
"Aw, Daddy, it's all yucky from Kevin's cum," I sputtered.
"I've removed the pillowcase. If there's a damp spot, put that side down."
I crinkled my face, lay my head on the pillow, and gazed solemnly up at my
father. "What am I s'posed to do now, sir?" I asked.
I saw a hint of a twinkle in Dad's eye. "If a boy's first whipping wasn't
such a momentous occassion, I'd suggest you stay where you are while I get
horseshoes and pitch practice ringers at your horseshoes stake."
I felt my ears redden. "Aw, sir, I can't help it all the guys get boners
when they get Bayer Ass Burns," I muttered.
"I know that, Mikey; it's not like you or your brother has anything to be
ashamed of. Now, you're to make a target of your heinder; keep your arms out at
your sides and swing your legs up over your head 'til your kneecaps touch the
pillow. That'll expose your buttocks, tauten the skin, and increase the
discomfort you'll feel consid'rably. Keep your legs together and hold still
while you're gettin' it; you're growing a good sized basket for a
thirteen-year-old, and you don't want your nuts swingin' back and gettin' in the
way of the strap."
"No, sir!" I chirruped, clamping my legs together like a cloistered nun's.
My dad ran an arm through the crook of my knees, hoisted my legs over my head,
and lay me with my weight on my upper back and my naked ass grinning up at him
like a Jack-o'-lantern. I felt cool evening air on the back of my scrotum and
the perineum between my asscheeks and realized my nether parts were exposed. But
it was nothing Daddy hadn't seen before while giving Kevin and me our annual
physical exams at the start of each school year. I watched helplessly while he
draw the rifle sling back to hit me a stinging lick down where my body was soft
and sensitive. "This'll sure make me behave," I blurted.
With the initial snap of rawhide against boyhide, three things happened
simultaneously: A CRACK! like an M-80 exploding inside a mailbox echoed through
the basement; I farted loudly, and bellowed like a born-again Christian at a
revival meeting. Even Kevin stopped jigging and rubbing his lollipop-red ass
long enough to lean back against the wall and watch open-mouthed as my whipping
progressed. Daddy said it would last a minute or two; to a naked boy with his
heinie poked up while it was systematically beaten with a leather strap, two
minutes is an eternity. I hollered so loud that Kevin forgot his own sore ass
and clapped hands over his ears to muffle the sound of my yelps and yowls.
Finally it was over; I was on my feet, dancing a knee-jerk fandango alongside my
brother, our pink-tipped boners flapping like airport wind socks in a hurricane.
I could report that my brother and I didn't have to return to the rec room
for a refresher lesson for the rest of the school year. But that would be
misleading because Daddy punished us on May 31; school let out for summer
vacation June seven. At least, we got through the final five days of classes
without getting into more trouble.
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