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I was fifteen when I first watched Ryan getting a thrashing from his dad. He was seventeen at the time, close to eighteen, and I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
It was about cricket – it always was, with George and Ryan. Ryan had played a school match that day, and evidently got himself in trouble. Surprise, surprise. George, a former national player himself, had been notified, and was giving Ryan hell about it.
Arrested by the angry voices coming from the study, I stopped on the stairs, irresistibly drawn to see what was going on. The door was slightly open, and I peeked through it to see Ryan standing in front of George's desk, hands behind his back. George was letting him have it.
“ – so what does he tell me? You swore at him. You idiot, you swore at the umpire! Not only argued, but swore! What did you think you were doing? Tell me, mate, what the hell were you thinking?”
“Chalmers was out, damn it,” Ryan burst out, sounding aggrieved. “I had him plumb!”
George's eyes narrowed. “More swearing, Ryan?”
“Shit!” Ryan threw his head back in frustration. “I mean – “
“You're begging for it, mate.”
“But I had him! We'd have won if – “
To my astonishment, George's hand lashed across Ryan's face. Ryan's complaint stopped immediately. He stared at his father for a moment, then dropped his head. “I'm sorry, sir.”
“That's better. Now tell me what you're sorry for.”
“For swearing.” I'd never heard Ryan sound so subdued. “I lost my temper on the field and swore at the umpire, then I swore at you. Twice.”
“Was that wrong?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what does that mean?”
“That means I deserve to be punished. Sir.”
Something clenched in my stomach. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Big, bad Ryan Avery was about to be punished by his father? What kind of punishment? I'd already seen George slap him across the face.
“Assume the position, Ryan.”
To my disbelief, Ryan unclasped his hands and bent over the mahogany desk, reaching out in front of him to hold onto the other side. I had a perfect view of his tight, hard ass in the straining cricket whites, and bit hard on my lip to keep from moaning.
“Legs apart,” George ordered.
Obediently, Ryan parted his legs until there was almost a metre between his feet.
George went behind the desk and opened a drawer. I nearly gasped when he pulled out a wooden paddle. “For swearing three times, you are going to get three implements,” he said almost conversationally. “First the paddle, then my belt, and finally the cane. Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir.” The words were a groan.
“We'll work in descending order. Thirty with the paddle, twenty with the belt, and ten with the cane. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
My bottom clenched as I listened to Ryan's obedient agreement. It was burning in anticipation of how badly the punishment was going to hurt Ryan, but there was another burn, deep inside me. It started as a tingling of excitement as George lifted his arm and smacked the paddle down on Ryan's displayed ass. He didn't take it slow. George Avery had never been known to take anything slow. Instead, he smacked that paddle down all over Ryan's butt, up and down each cheek, across the middle, down the backs of his thighs.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
I'd counted twenty, and already I was gasping. Ryan hadn't made a sound. He simply lay over that desk and took the paddling like a man who knew he deserved it.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Thirty, at last! My own bottom was aching, but Ryan didn't betray any feeling whatsoever. George was determined to involve him in this punishment, however.
“What's next, Ryan?” he demanded.
“The belt, sir.” The words were clipped, almost gasped.
“How many?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty, what?”
“Twenty, sir,” Ryan ground out.
“Very good.” George was smiling as he undid his belt and dragged it from the loops of his pants. When it was free, he doubled it up and slapped his own hand with it. The sound made me cringe, yet my excitement intensified.
“Ready, Ryan?” he asked pleasantly.
“Yes, sir.”
The leather belt whacked down across the crest of Ryan's ass. Ryan's body jerked at the impact, but he made no sound. Another whack, in the exact same place. I winced in sympathy as Ryan went rigid. Still no sound. A third whack, in the same place. Ryan's head shot up, and I was sure his knuckles were turning white as he gripped the desk. But he still didn't cry out.
To my relief, George abandoned that spot and the next seven blows made their way down from Ryan's lower back to the tops of his thighs. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Halfway there, he gave it a pause. Ryan's back rose and fell jerkily as he gasped for breath, and his ass and legs were trembling from the pain. Still no sound.
George seemed disappointed that he wasn't raising more of a reaction from Ryan, and it seemed to me that he put extra effort into the next few blows that he rained down across the middle of his son's backside.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Ryan reared up, then slammed his chest down against the desk again. By now I could hear his gasps as he struggled to keep control.
WHACK!
A violent jerk.
WHACK!
“Shit!” The cry was hoarse, ripped from him against his will, a despairing rupture of his desperate control.
George stopped instantly. “What was that?”
Ryan dragged a deep breath into his lungs and released it slowly, evidently fighting for restraint. “I swore again, sir.” Still that hoarse, rasping voice.
“Hmm.” George was more intrigued than annoyed by this turn of events, and scratched his head. “Looks like you have a choice, Ryan. Either we double your remaining punishment, or you take what's left on the bare.”
I almost screamed. The bare? Without his pants on? Oh my God! Ryan Avery, my best friend's bad big brother – whipped on the bare? For six years I'd been trying to avoid him, wary of his sardonic mouth, his glittering eyes that always seemed to know more than they should. Ryan was bad, no doubt about it, and I was terrified of him. As terrified as I was horribly, guiltily attracted. Suddenly, I prayed Ryan would choose the latter.
He seemed to be undecided.
“Your choice, son. Which will it be? Five with the belt and ten with the cane on the bare, or ten more with the belt and twenty with the cane?”
I didn't think I could stand to watch Ryan caned twenty times, and to my intense relief, he answered quietly, “On the bare.”
George smiled. I think he was relieved too. “You may get up to remove your pants.”
Ryan turned slightly as he straightened, giving me a view of his face. He was pale, and his mouth was drawn into a tight line. His dark eyes burned. I was so caught up by the expression in them that I almost missed him drop his pants. They were cricket-regulation white, held up at the top by a string, which Ryan untied. He pulled out the waist to loosen it, then with one swift motion, pulled the pants and his white briefs down to his knees.
To my disappointment, I didn't get much of a view of the front of him, because almost immediately he draped himself back over the desk. But I got a brilliant view of the back. His skin was naturally dark, because of his Italian descent. This time he parted his legs without being told although not as widely, and I glimpsed black hair between his legs. There was certainly enough of it growing down his legs, but his butt was almost smooth. It took all my self control to remain where I was, and I clasped my hands together to refrain from reaching out to touch him. God, he was gorgeous. And that taut male butt of his was crimson. From his lower back to his knees, his skin glowed dull red from the paddling. I could just about make out the individual welts from the belt, much darker – almost purple, but not quite. It looked sore as hell, and I couldn't believe he'd stood still to receive it, and only cried out once.
And what that cry had cost him!
“Ready?” George asked him.
‘Yes, sir,” Ryan muttered in reply.
This time I saw his ass muscles contract in anticipation of the whack! I clenched my teeth together, agonising over what I watched, unable to make myself leave. George landed these whacks from top to bottom again, with the final whack landing halfway down Ryan's tense thighs.
So tense myself, I sagged against the doorframe with relief when he set the belt aside. But when he made his way over to the cupboard, I remembered what was to come next. The cane.
I had never been spanked by anybody in my life. In fact, I'd never before seen anyone being spanked. I knew nothing about it, but even the word, cane , terrified me. Actually seeing the implement almost made me faint. If anybody even thought about using such a thing on me, I knew I would die. I wouldn't be able to take it. Ryan must have felt it before. How could he even think about misbehaving, knowing the threat waiting for him?
CRACK!
Ryan's helpless gasp drowned out mine, and I saw every one of his muscles contract. A dark purple stripe formed across the crest of his punished bottom. His cheeks clenched together, then forcibly relaxed. He'd definitely been here before, I realised. He knew the drill. I don't know how I knew George demanded he relax between strokes, but I didn't think Ryan would be relaxing his ass by choice.
CRACK!
An inch lower than the first. Ryan jerked up, but his hands anchored him to the desk. Straining backwards, he gasped for breath, head thrown back, then lay down again. Relaxed his muscles again.
CRACK!
Three neat stripes, all in a row. I was almost screaming as I watched the welt form on his dark skin, and he pressed his thighs together as much as he could. Every muscle tensed frantically in resistance to the fiery pain I knew had to be blazing through him, and then relaxed once more. But they trembled, obediently awaiting the next blow.
CRACK!
This time I made myself watch as the cane struck Ryan's ass. His flesh jerked in and upwards with the force, then bounced back into place as a fourth purple ridge formed on the fleshy crown of his bottom. I saw George draw the cane across the welt, dragging it lengthways along the wound before lifting it again, and fire lashed through me. I was burning up with empathetic pain, yet I was aching with desire at the same time. I wanted to go inside the study and touch Ryan, feel his welts for myself, run my fingers over his throbbing bottom – both to soothe and excite. But somehow I managed to restrain myself.
CRACK!
CRACK!
CRACK!
Perfectly placed between the four stripes that marked Ryan's flesh. People had always said about George that it was his brilliant timing and placement that made him such a great batsman. I don't know about timing, but his placement was perfect. Shock knocked the breath from me, and it seemed to have done the same to Ryan, because he didn't react. Then suddenly he clenched his battered cheeks together and emitted a low moan. His voice broke several times, then he gasped deeply.
George decided it was time he involved himself again. “How many more, Ryan?”
I gasped at the unfairness of the question. I had been watching and even I didn't know. How many had he given Ryan? I had no idea.
But Ryan croaked, “Three – sir.”
Still three to go? I almost groaned, all thoughts that I was voluntarily putting myself through this forgotten. I couldn't leave Ryan now. It was as though if I left, I'd be abandoning him to face it on his own. At least this way, I could share some of his pain.
Even though he didn't know I was there.
Mercifully, George made it quick. One crack created a diagonal slash from the top left to the lower right of Ryan's bottom. The next crack turned it into a neat cross. The third and final crack slammed right across the crown of his ass, and once again George dragged the cane through the wound. Then he moved to return it to the cupboard.
Ryan didn't move. He lay there, bent over the desk, every muscle rigid, protesting the fire that must surely be licking through him. It was overwhelming me, and my flesh hadn't been touched! I clenched my fists and bit hard down on my lower lip to keep from moving or crying out, from giving vent to the feelings Ryan was refusing to acknowledge.
When George closed the cupboard, Ryan still hadn't moved. At least now he was breathing, in short, sharp gasps that shook his shoulders. His entire body shuddered repeatedly, then George ordered, “Stand up, mate.”
I wanted to yell at him, to use the cane on him and see if he felt like standing up after that. Couldn't he see that it was all Ryan could do to breathe?
But, still obedient, Ryan forced himself upright.
“You can pull up your pants.”
Wincing, I watched Ryan scrape the material against his beaten ass and retie the drawstring at his waist. Only then did he turn around so that I could see his face. He was ashen, except for two streaks of colour high across his cheekbones. His dark eyes glittered, but not with tears. Proudly, back stiff, he faced his father.
“Thank you, sir,” he said precisely. His voice had returned, although it still sounded strained, and I couldn't believe his words. He was thanking his father for that abuse? He was thanking him?
George smiled, and briefly touched Ryan's rigid shoulder. “Next time an umpire gives you a decision you don't like, I want you to thank him too. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.”
Ryan turned to leave, and I darted away from my hiding place, barely coming to my senses in time. I flung myself onto his sister's bed, and when I heard him coming up the stairs, I slammed the door and scrabbled for a book. Breathing hard, I stared at the black print, listening to Ryan's footsteps as he made the landing and passed Isabella's room for his own. But they didn't pass. They stopped, and with my heart in my mouth, I watched the brass door handle turn. Ryan poked his head around the door, slightly more colour in his face now, and black eyes scorched into mine. Then his mouth twisted in amusement.
“Enjoy the show, Shayla?”
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