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#include <universal.disclaimer>
(This story is fiction. It involves a non-sexual relationship between two teenaged boys. It does include elements of spanking and watersports. If this kind of thing does not appeal to you, skip this article.
This story is Copyright 1995 Bobby Watson, All Rights Reserved. Non-commercial use is allowed. Reprinting or other commercial use is prohibited without written permission of the author.)
A Matter Of Control
by Bobby Watson
Sam couldn't believe this was happening. He had agreed to the plan but still couldn't believe it was really happening. It was just... too...weird. Here he was, sixteen years old, shivering nervously, his short blond hair matted down with sweat, trying to control himself.
Control. It had never been his strong suit. A nervous boy who couldn't remember when he didn't need glasses, who had wet the bed until he was eleven, Sam never really felt in control of his body... or his life. Of course he had been a child until recently, but even now, on the brink of manhood, control seemed beyond his grasp.
Although he didn't wet the bed any more, Sam did feel he had to pee whenever he got nervous. That turned out to be quite often. Some- times in school Sam would visit the boy's restroom between every class, and he rarely made it more than two hours without feeling the urgent need to relieve his bladder. Medical examinations had shown that there was nothing wrong with Sam's urinary tract. The problem was all nerves.
Being a typical American boy, Sam was fascinated by automobiles. But now that he had his driver's license Sam found that he had trouble dealing with traffic. Threading a car through the winding country roads around the small village where he lived was great, and Sam could even deal with cruising the nearby interstate highway as long as it wasn't rush hour. Driving in the city was another matter entirely. Having so many cars moving close to his made Sam feel like he had to pee - right now.
Not that Sam was a wimp, far from it. Sam looked into the mirror at his still growing 5 foot, 9 inch frame. Not especially thin at 190 pounds, he wasn't really fat, either. He had been lifting weights for years, and most of his weight was muscle. Despite his nervous- ness, Sam was a competitor. After two years playing center on the junior varsity football team, Sam expected to make the varsity squad this fall, during his junior year of high school. The camaraderie of his teammates seemed to ease his inherent nervousness to a degree, but now it was midsummer and football practice was still a couple of weeks away.
Sam's main worry was what to do about his nervous need to pee so often. Up until now it hadn't caused any insurmountable problems, but that would change in a couple of years. Sam wanted more than anything to enlist in the Marines. Starting in boot camp Sam would need to hold his water for hours at a time. Sam learned from his Uncle Harry, a former Marine drill instructor, that recruits wet themselves sometimes. But Sam also knew that his condition, as it stood now, would not be tolerated in the long term. There was little point in enlisting in the Marines if he would receive a medical discharge before he even completed basic training.
Whenever Sam had a problem he turned to Don, his best friend. Inseparable for the past four years, the two friends were quite different both physically and mentally. Don was a year older than Sam, though an inch shorter than his younger friend. Don's round, usually rosy face was customarily topped by a brown mop, although he kept his hair short during the summer heat. Weighing in at well over 200 pounds, Don was hardly athletic, preferring junk food and chess to weightlifting and running. Considered a nerd in school, Don expected to play first board on the high school chess team during his upcoming senior year. Sam's nervous insecurity and customary hang- dog expression were balanced by Don's rock steady self-assurance, quick wit, and hearty laughter. In fact the only quality both boys shared was being socially clumsy around anyone their own age, except each other.
Sam had been shocked by Don's suggested remedy to his problem. It was not the first time Don had surprised him, nor would it likely be the last. Over the years Sam had come to trust his friend, so he reluctantly went along with this incredible plan. First hatched at the end of the previous school year, the plan required that the boys wait until Don's parents left for vacation. An only child, Don was given the run of the house while his parents travelled around New England visiting boring historical sites.
So it was that Sam arrived at Don's house just after lunch on the day after Independence Day, bag in hand. Sam had permission to stay with Don for a week, although Sam's parents expected the boys to have dinner with them, and Sam's older brother Steve, a couple of evenings that week. Ostensibly this was to save them the need to buy all their meals, but the boys knew the grown-ups wanted to keep track of them, too.
Don's parents left him enough money to buy most of his meals, plus there was plenty of canned and frozen food in the house. Don had his own car, a ten-year-old Mustang, so the boys could go the mall to play video games any time they wanted. They planned to stay at the house for the first couple of days to implement the plan to cure Sam's problem. This meant they would be living on delivered pizza for a while, something neither of them minded.
What Sam really minded was the waiting. Only an hour ago it had started. Sam had stood at the toilet in Don's bathroom, pants around his ankles, his semi-erect penis in his hand, trying to urinate for the last time before the plan started. Sam was very modest, though he managed to choke it down in the locker room at school. He found it difficult to pee while anyone was watching, even his best friend. His partial erection wasn't helping matters.
To top it all off Don deliberately made it embarrassing for Sam, sitting on the edge of the bath tub, staring intently at his friend's penis, even laughing at it. Sam knew he could not try to shield his genitals from Don's gaze. Humiliation was part of the plan. In reality, Sam knew he had nothing to be ashamed of. His penis, cur- rently about five inches long, thin despite its partial erection, would grow to nearly seven inches when fully aroused. A full erec- tion was the last thing Sam needed just now. Eventually his urine, which seemed so eager to come out the rest of the time, began flow- ing. It started as a trickle, a few golden drops dripping into the toilet bowl, then emerging as a stream that Sam, without even think- ing about it, played about the bowl the way boys of all ages had been doing for centuries.
Sam couldn't imagine why he was modest around his friend. They had known each other for years and seen each other naked many times. In fact they had masturbated each other a couple of times the previous year, though neither boy considered himself gay. Despite all his boasting to the contrary at school, Sam was still a virgin. He thought Don might be one too, although his friend boasted that he had made Amanda Laney the previous year. Sam figured that was about as true as his own whoppers about his alleged amorous conquests, but it was possible. At least Amanda was known to talk to Don in school, which is more than Sam had really accomplished with any girl so far. Don often told Sam that his "frightened puppy" attitude was getting in his way when approaching girls. Maybe it was.
Finally Sam had finished peeing, shook himself off, and pulled up his underpants and his denim cutoff shorts, adjusting his penis for comfort. It had begun. That had been an hour and a quarter ago. The waiting was already becoming unbearable.
Sam's musings were interrupted by his friend's loud voice, "Come on, pal. Get in here!" Don always had trouble whispering, as his voice carried for long distances. Sam left the foyer, where he had been gazing at himself in the full length mirror, and walked through the living room into the kitchen.
Don was seated at the kitchen table. He handed Sam a big glass of water. "Drink up, pal. We gotta make it interesting." Sam groaned, but drank the sixteen ounces of water in two big gulps. This was the second glass of water he had consumed in the last hour. Don watched approvingly, then said, "Okay, we got you stoked up. Now, let's go over the plan one more time."
Sam cleared his throat. "Okay."
"Well?"
Sam shifted nervously from foot to foot. "For the next two days, I have to hold it for at least four hours at a time."
"Or?"
"Or I get the paddle," Sam concluded sadly, his head hanging.
"How many," Don asked, picking up the paddle that had been laying on the kitchen table. The wooden instrument was 5 inches wide and 16 inches long (not including the handle), and 3/8 inch thick. Don ran a finger along the edge of the wood, then played with the holes that studded the flat surface.
"One whack for every fifteen minutes short of four hours," Sam answered, unable to take his eyes off the paddle. Sam knew that paddle, it was the paddle that his parents had used on him and Steve when they were kids. It had been nearly three years since Sam last felt that paddle's sting, since its holes had raised blisters on his thirteen-year-old backside and made him cry. Don persuaded him to sneak it out of his parent's basement and bring it along as the motivational part of the plan. Sam knew it was only psychology, but just seeing Don playing with that familiar piece of wood sent waves of apprehension coursing through his body, causing him to squeeze his legs together. He already had to pee so badly.
Don smiled, noting the effect that just seeing the paddle had on Sam. Despite his fear, or perhaps because of it, a small but noticeable bulge had grown at the front of Sam's denim cutoffs. He was partial- ly erect again, the fear of failure and the ensuing punishment get- ting him excited. That was good, since Sam would be less likely to wet himself if he had an erection. After all, the whole idea behind this exercise was to get Sam used to holding his water for several hours at a time.
On the other hand, he didn't want Sam to get over his problem TOO quickly. Don was looking forward to a chance to paddle his friend's bare butt at least once. From the way Sam's legs were involuntarily squeezing together with more than two and a half hours to go, Don didn't think he had much to worry about. "How will that be deter- mined," Don prompted, knowing full well that forcing Sam to explain the whole plan again only added to his agony of apprehension.
"When I can't hold it anymore, I run out into the back yard," Sam began the recitation. He was finally able to wrest his gaze from that infernal paddle and stare at the wall. "As soon as I step outside the back door, you stop the timer. That determines how many whacks I get. One whack of the paddle for every fifteen minutes, or part thereof, remaining until four hours since the last time I peed."
"Correct," Don observed dispassionately. "What happens when you get outside?"
Sam licked his lips and continued, "My hands will be cuffed behind my back so I won't be able to take out my pecker, or pull down my pants."
"And I will only pull down you pants when..." Don prompted.
"When the four hours are up and I'm allowed to pee. Or after I've finished wetting my pants and you're ready to...paddle me." Every time Sam said the word 'paddle' he winced.
Don nodded, indicating that Sam should continue. "So I run out into the back yard and wet my pants. When I'm done embarrassing myself, you'll take off my wet pants and clean me off. You reset the timer. Then we go into the garage and you...paddle me. After that you dry me off, put clean underpants on me."
"Actually," Don corrected him, "I reset the timer after the clean pants are on you. The time the paddling takes doesn't count towards the next four hour period."
"Okay," Sam agreed sheepishly. "Anyway, then it's all over, except that I have to hold it for another four hours - or else."
"That about covers it," Don said, rising. He decided to knock off the mind games for the moment and get ready for action. "Let's finish getting everything set up, okay?"
"Okay," Sam said, trying to sound happier about the situation than he was.
Don picked up the paddle and led the way out of the kitchen. "Dig out your spare undies," Don ordered when they arrived in his bedroom.
"Okay," said Sam. He walked over and pulled six pairs of white briefs out of his bag. They were the most heavily worn pairs he owned that were still holding together. He didn't want to risk peeing into new underwear, even though Don planned to wash them all when they were done.
While Sam was occupied with the underwear, Don was retrieving a pair of shiny silver handcuffs from his dresser. Don had found them in his parent's bedroom. It was apparent from the magazines he also found there that his folks were really into some "kinky stuff." Although he found this revelation surprising, it didn't really bother him.
The handcuffs definitely bothered Sam. This was the part of the plan that had bugged him from the beginning. He failed to see why he had to be handcuffed. Despite his many failings he was an honest person and wouldn't cheat. The main problem was that the idea of being handcuffed, even by his best friend, scared the shit out of Sam.
"Okay, pal," Don said. "Put the undies on the bed. I'll carry them to the garage." Sam complied with his request. "Now, I want you to turn around and put your hands behind your back."
Very slowly Sam complied. His bladder felt like it was bursting, and his legs squeezed together maddeningly. He turned his back to Don, his hands hanging limply behind him, wondering if he should head for the back yard soon. What time was it, anyway?
Sam's thoughts were interrupted when he felt his left hand roughly grabbed, then a cold metallic touch as the handcuff closed around his wrist. It was quickly the turn of his right wrist to feel the cold steel encase it.
Suddenly Sam knew he was in trouble. He moaned as the mindless fear the handcuffs caused in him made his bladder contract. He had to get to the back yard NOW! Even as he took the second step, he knew it was already too late. He shuddered, stopped in his tracks, and yelled, "No!" At that same moment a brief jet of urine was forced from his bladder under incredible pressure, and no sphincter found in man was going to hold it back.
Don was surprised when Sam started to leave, since the next part of the plan called for the removal of Sam's cutoff shorts. There was no need for Sam to pee in them. The plan called for Sam to spend the next 48 hours clad only in underpants. Just as he started to call Sam back the blond boy stopped, then Don heard the sickening splash as a small puddle of liquid appeared suddenly on his bedroom floor. Don roared, "What the hell," even as he realized what had happened.
Sam spun around, his eyes wide in horror. Don could immediately see the dark spot on the front of Sam's cutoffs. The spot was slowly spreading, and the denim actually looked shiny just where the small bulge showed the location of Sam's penis. Don realized with amazing clarity that the shiny stuff on Sam's shorts was urine clinging to the outside of the cloth that simply hadn't fallen to the floor - yet.
For a few seconds neither boy could speak. Both were waiting for the veritable deluge of hot yellow liquid which was sure to follow. Oddly enough, the deluge didn't arrive. Sam's horror at what he had done shut down his body momentarily. He found he even needed to will himself to breathe.
Finally Don found his breath. "Get out," he yelled. "Get out in the yard!"
Sam was confused. "But my shorts?" As Sam continued to stand still, Don observed the shiny spot disappear from the bulge in Sam's shorts, although the dark stain itself continued to spread, mostly downwards. Apparently the excess pee was being absorbed back into the cloth as the stain spread.
"Never mind your fucking shorts," Don roared, "get out before you piss on the floor again." Don finally remembered to click off the stop watch that hung from a flexible cord around his neck.
Slowly Sam willed his legs to comply. Don ran into his bathroom, grabbed a washcloth, and hurried to remove the little puddle from his bedroom floor. For once he was glad the old house had hardwood floors rather than carpeting. After rinsing out the washcloth in the sink, Don rifled through his desk drawer for something special, which he put in his pocket. Then grabbing the paddle, the washcloth, and the pile of briefs, he walked towards the back door, checking the trail for puddles or drops.
Meanwhile Sam plodded steadily towards the back door, not running for three reasons. One, he probably couldn't run anyway, not with his hands cuffed behind his back. Two, he might lose control of his bladder again, and three, extreme movements might cause his urine soaked cutoffs and underpants to surrender more of their cargo to the forces of gravity. He could tell from Don's voice that he was angry about Sam's accident in the bedroom. Now that he was handcuffed and it was too late to back out of the plan, Sam knew he couldn't afford to upset his friend any further.
Finally Sam made it to the back door, located in the kitchen. He pushed the screen door open with his body and emerged on the flag stone patio. Maneuvering around the patio furniture, Sam made his way out to the grass. Finally! He was now free to cut loose and relieve the pressure on his bladder. But he wasn't quite ready to do that.
Sam was glad that Don's house was secluded, with the back yard surrounded by trees on all sides. Since the property was on the highest ground in the area, it was unlikely anyone would see him standing in the back yard even though it was daylight. This was a good thing, since Sam was in a very embarrassing situation. He could feel the wetness of the underpants clinging to his crotch. Looking down at his shorts, he saw the dark stain on the blue denim. Here he was, sixteen-years-old, and he had just pissed his pants like some pre-schooler. Sam hated the idea, and hated even more the idea of having to consciously finish the job he had accidentally started in Don's bedroom. The whole thing was surreal.
Worried about being seen in his wet pants in the middle of the yard despite the apparent seclusion, Sam made his way over towards the garage. Why not, that was his eventual destination anyway. He finally halted next to a flowering shrub behind the garage, facing the yellow blooms that swayed in the gentle summer breeze. Full of emotions, mainly shame, Sam was forced to fight to keep tears from his eyes as he stood there waiting.
Don was amazed that didn't find any further drops or puddles of urine on the way from his bedroom to the back door. When he had seen the first splash of pee on his bedroom floor, he was sure that a flood would follow almost immediately. Setting his cargo on the kitchen counter, Don went outside to see how Sam was doing.
Don stood on the patio searching for his friend. Finally he saw Sam, standing restlessly next to the forsythia bush at the back of the garage. Quickly scanning the patio for pee stains, and finding none, Don walked over to check on his friend's progress. As he hopped on the stoop at the garage's back door, a people door, Don asked, "How's it going?"
Lost in his own world of embarrassment and fear, Sam nearly jumped out of his skin at this sudden question coming from just a few feet away. "Oww!" Sam cried in shock. He grimaced as he just barely fought back another fear-induced burst of pee that threatened to further flood his pants.
Don laughed his hearty laugh. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare the piss out of you."
Sam glared at his friend, his cheeks flaming red with embarrassment. "Very funny," he said sarcastically.
"So, are you finished with your relief mission?" Don decided to get back to the business at hand.
"No," Sam replied bitterly.
"Okay, I have to finish getting set up anyway. Take your time, but hurry up." Don smiled, turning to open the back door of the garage.
"Wait! Can't you take my pants off now? I don't want to pee in them while I'm wearing them." Sam seemed desperate.
"Well, it's a bit late for that. Is there anything in your pockets?"
"Yes."
"Okay, I'll take that stuff out so it doesn't get wet." He pulled Sam's wallet and comb from the pockets of his cutoff shorts. He then took off Sam's glasses.
"Hey, I need those!" Sam protested, immediately squinting.
"Not for what's gonna happen to you for the next two days. I'll put them back on you when we watch television."
"Okay," Sam said dubiously. "But can you take my pants off now?"
"Look," Don stated strongly, his voice assuming a note of command, "we went over all this weeks ago. Your pants only come down after four hours, or when you're done peeing in them. You've obviously failed the four hour test, so get on with it. The grass needs watering anyway."
"How about just taking off my cutoffs? I can still pee in my underpants. That's what was supposed to happen anyway." Sam was still on the verge of tears.
Don hesitated, watching his friend nervously shift from foot to foot, still squeezing his legs together. Suddenly his glare softened. "Okay," he said. "You're right about them not being part of the plan."
"Thanks," said Sam, a weak smile crossing his face. He stepped over to Don and stood on the grass next to the garage door stoop. Don unfastened the snap on Sam's cutoffs, then fumbled with the zipper. "Hurry, please," Sam pleaded.
"Hold your water, pal," Don quipped, grinning at his wretched friend. Sam just groaned in response. Finally Don managed to get the denim shorts unzipped, and started them down Sam's legs. As the blue denim cutoffs fell, they unveiled the white briefs clinging to Sam's hips. A yellow stain marred the crotch of the otherwise pure white cloth.
With the denim shorts around Sam's ankles to hold him in place, Don reached for the waistband of his friend's underpants and pulled them up tight. Sam let out a shrill whine as he felt the wet cotton cloth tighten, conforming to the shape of his body. Fear had caused Sam's penis to deflate, so only a small bump was visible in the crotch of the blond boy's underpants, riding just above the large bulge of his testicles.
"Step out of these," Don now ordered, holding the soiled shorts and helping Sam out of them. Made clumsy by fear, Sam almost managed to trip himself as he stepped out of the wet denims. When his feet were at last clear of the confining blue cloth, Sam took a couple of quick steps backwards, trying to retain his balance.
Finally Sam stood in the sun-browned grass, clad only in his stained briefs, miserably waiting to see whether his urgent need to pee or his intense distaste for the idea of peeing his pants would triumph. Sam decided to return to his shrub to pee.
As he turned back towards the bush, Don said, "Hey, wait!" Sam froze.
"Turn back towards me. I want to watch," said Don, sitting down on the edge of the stoop. Sam groaned, but complied. Don sat there and stared at his friend's crotch only a few feet away and just about at his eye level.
Sam was disgusted with the whole situation. "Do you want some popcorn?" he asked sarcastically.
Don laughed. "Nope, lemonade will be fine. Just put it on the grass over there where you're standing."
Sam rolled his eyes and grunted in disgust. After all these years he should know better than to try to out wisecrack the master. At least the humor of the exchange had took his mind off crying.
"By the way," Don said conversationally, "you peed after only one hour and 41 minutes had elapsed. How many whacks of the paddle is that?"
Sam squinted at the sky, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Nine," he said uncertainly.
"Wrong," Don said. "Remember, you only held it for a hour and a half. Those eleven extra minutes don't count."
"Ten, then," Sam said woefully.
"Correct," Don said, grinning enthusiastically. "That takes care of peeing before the four hours was up. There is also the small matter of you pissing on the floor of my bedroom. That must be punished separately."
Sam gulped. "How?" he finally managed to croak fearfully.
"You'll see. We'll do the ten whacks with the paddle first, then I'll tell you what the penalty for peeing in the house will be."
"Can't we negotiate that too?" Sam asked hopefully. It had taken them a couple of days to agree on the basic paddle punishment for failure under the plan.
"No way!" Don said sternly. "Any brat who is irresponsible enough to piss on my bedroom floor gets whatever punishment I decide to give him." Sam nodded his acquiescence, his head hanging in shame. He remembered that the first thing they had agreed on in planning was that there would be no pissing in the house. They had just never bothered to negotiate a punishment for violation of that rule, since neither boy imagined it would ever be violated. Now that Sam had violated a rule it was unthinkable to violate, he was truly at Don's mercy.
Both boys fell silent then. The offender stood squirming in his already soiled underpants, locked in a struggle with his urgent biological functions. The judge and eventual executioner sat intently watching, waiting for the offender's inevitable failure in this struggle.
He didn't have long to wait. The sudden uncertainty about the extra punishment doubled Sam's apprehension level. Within a minute or two the nervous pressure on his bladder become too much and he had to let go. Sam didn't remember making a conscious decision. His sphincter simply relaxed and he involuntarily muttered, "Shit," as he felt the fresh burst of hot urine surge through his penis and flood his underpants.
Don was surprised at how sudden it was, again. One second Sam was standing there, the original stain on his underpants being dried by the sun, his face a mask of misery as he gamely tried to control himself. The next second the crotch of his briefs was flooded and hot golden pee was running down his legs. Nor was this the only water running. Tears of shame were also running down Sam's cheeks. Don couldn't resist observing, "You're leaking bodily fluids all over the place."
Sam ignored him. After a half minute the new surges of wetness subsided. Content at having contributed immeasurably to his friend's humiliation, Don stood and gathered up Sam's denim shorts and the items he had removed from them. As he opened the garage door, he said, "don't move from that spot."
"Okay," Sam answered miserably. He watched Don go into the garage and close the door. Happy to at last lose his audience, he also knew something that his friend didn't, namely, that there was still pressure on his bladder. The show wasn't over yet.
Disgusted by the hot piss running down the inside of his legs from the first burst of relief, Sam decided to try something. He spread his legs out as far as possible with the uncertain balance provided by his hands being cuffed behind his back. Cutting loose with another volley of pee, Sam was happy to find that this stance allowed most of the nasty liquid to pour directly from the soaked crotch of his underpants to splash noisily on the ground without running down his legs. Sam stood there for what seemed like a lifetime in his awkward split, sprinkling the lawn and wondering just how much pee was in him.
Five minutes later, when Don re-emerged from the garage, the show was finally over. Don looked at his friend, miserably rooted to his spot on the lawn. Sam seemed almost spent, sweating in the July heat. Don went over to the faucet on the back of the house and turned it on, charging the garden hose laying nearby. He picked up the spray nozzle on the end of the hose and walked back over near the garage door stoop, the hose dragging behind. "Come over here, boy," said Don in his best authority figure voice.
Sam trudged over to where Don was standing, shoulders slumped, a disgusted expression on his face. When Sam was about 5 feet away Don said, "Halt!" Sam stopped immediately, his head still hanging. Don took a few seconds to examine his friend. The short blond hair was matted with sweat. The formerly white underpants were now truly soaked throughout the crotch area, and a lighter stain could even be seen spreading very slowly upwards from the sopping wet cloth that swaddled Sam's genitals. The bulge caused by his young manhood was noticeably larger, indicating that it was partially erect again. Don knew how to take care of THAT situation.
Without any preamble, Don squeezed the trigger of the hose nozzle. He aimed the stream of water directly at his friend's head. Sam staggered backward in shock, to startled to speak at first. Finally, as Don played the water over his body, Sam managed to protest. "Hey, what the hell are you doing?"
"Cleaning you off, dummy. Stand still."
"Wait a minute," Sam protested, though he did manage to stand still after a few seconds. Then suddenly the water turned COLD. "Hey! That's cold!"
"So," Don said, "you should be happy to be sprayed with cold water when it's this hot."
Sam groaned, but otherwise held his tongue. He made a few sounds of protest when the powerful stream of water was directed at his groin. "Turn around," Don ordered. Sam did so, then the process was repeated on the back of his body. Don dropped the hose, pulled down Sam's briefs, had the boy step out of them, then threw the wet cloth on the nearby stoop.
The older boy then picked up the nozzle again and hosed down the now naked blond. When he was turned around again and the powerful jet of cold water found his groin, Sam protested. "Yeow! That hurts," Sam whined.
"Don't be such a baby," Don warned. He turned off the hose. "Spread your legs into a split."
"Why?" Sam asked suspiciously.
"Because I told you to," Don said. "You're already in enough trouble, boy. I would recommend complete cooperation on your part if you know what's good for you. I haven't yet announced your extra punishment, so I could increase it if you irritate me."
Sam gulped at this threat, biting down on the wiseass remark that he wanted to make. Slowly he recreated the split he had used to salvage a small amount of dignity while he finished peeing. Don walked right up to him and bent over slightly. Suddenly, before he could protest again, his groin was enveloped with pain as Don sprayed his genitals with cold water at full blast from a distance of a few inches. Sam hissed in pain, unable to move or speak. The pain subsided as the powerful stream of cold water moved further back, flooding the area between his testicles and the crack of his ass. Before Sam could regain his voice it was all over. Don put down the hose and shut off the faucet again, then turned to survey his handiwork.
Sam stood there, his legs still spread into the uncomfortable split. His hair was soaked and disheveled, making him look a little like a drowned golden-haired rat. The brutal cold water hosing-down had caused the boy's penis to shrivel, nearly retracting into his body. He was shivering, breathing heavily, his head still hanging, again on the verge of tears.
"Okay, boy, it's showtime," said Don, still in authoritarian mode. "Get your ass into the garage and prepare it for paddling." Sam complied, reluctantly drawing his legs together and stepping up on the stoop. Don opened the door to the garage, and signalled the dripping boy to enter.
Sam entered the garage, squinting in the relative darkness. Don pushed him roughly forward. He said, "Keep it moving, boy. Get over to that bench and lay down, bottoms up." Sam walked over to what he guessed was the bench in question. As he drew closer, it appeared to be the low pine bench Don's parents kept in the foyer near the front door. About 18 inches high and deep, and about four feet long, the bench was ideal for people to sit on when putting on or removing boots or shoes. Now it was sitting in the middle of one of the two garage bays, covered with towels.
Sam stepped up to the bench, uncertain how to proceed. He could either lie on it lengthwise, or kneel across it sideways. He didn't really like either option considering what was going to happen next. Don, apparently sensing his confusion, said, "lengthwise, boy."
Sam draped himself, as gently as possible, over the length of the bench. The towels helped assure that his skin, and especially his genitals, wouldn't be scraped by the rough wood of the bench. They also protected the bench from the drops of cold water that covered Sam's body. Don arranged the boy so that his chin rested on one end of the bench. Sam's knees were about equal with the other end of the bench, his legs simply hanging off into thin air. When Don was satisfied with the situation, he said, "Boy, you will remain in that position until the punishment is completed."
"Yes, sir," Sam answered weakly. He still couldn't believe this was really happening. Don wouldn't really paddle his best friend's ass, would he? Not for real?
Don decided not to waste any more time. He retrieved the paddle from his father's small workbench and knelt next to the improvised punish- ment bench on Sam's left side. When Don grabbed Sam's cuffed hands firmly to keep him from trying to move, he felt the boy's body stiffen.
A second later he brought the paddle down with all the force he could muster on the cringing white buttocks. The distinctive sharp crack of wood on flesh resounded through the garage, followed by Sam's anguished howl. CRACK! "Yeoow!"
CRACK! "Ooowww!"
Just two whacks into the punishment, the level of pain shocked Sam. He was used to his mother using this paddle on him. Don was stronger and heavier than Sam's mother, but something else was different. Wrong, even. CRACK!! "Ooosh!"
A few seconds later Sam thought he knew what was different. CRACK!! "Noooo!"
Well, in actual fact, yes. Sam was sure now what was different. Every time Don slammed the paddle into his ass, he didn't just let it bounce off again, the way Sam's mother and the paddle-wielding teachers of his acquaintance had done. CRACK!! "Oooowwww!"
That one really hurt! In any event Don was, in effect, cheating. At the end of each whack, as the paddle tried to bounce off of the aching surface of Sam's buttocks, Don applied pressure to keep the board tight against Sam's suddenly jiggling cheeks for a few seconds, an action he obviously knew would intensify the sting tremendously. CRACK!! "Sssss."
That one stung so much that Sam could only hiss in anguish, his legs kicking out again. Don wasn't nearly as strong as Sam, but he had a firm grip on Sam's hands behind his back. In this position, Don was plenty strong enough to keep Sam from going anywhere no matter how much he struggled. Don also seemed to be putting plenty of strength into the paddle whacks - more than enough strength for Sam's taste. The question was, where the hell did Don learn how to paddle so effectively? He told Sam that his folks used some kind of belt on him. Not the kind of belt you wore around your waist, either. What was it, again? CRACK!! "Ooooowwww!"
Sam's thoughts were interrupted by the cumulative pain that had built up in his stinging posterior. Sam's legs, the only part of him free to move, kicked involuntarily from the pain. He was starting to sob now, his self-control overloaded. Three to go. Sam wasn't sure how he stay still for that many more. It was a good thing he had little choice in the matter. KER-RACK!! "Uhh."
The sting was becoming unbearable. Either it was his imagination, of Don was hitting harder with each whack. Sam's body shook with sobs and shivered with fear, all at the same time. KER-RACK!! "Oohh."
After each whack, Sam couldn't believe that the pain could get any worse, but so far he was always proven wrong after the next whack struck home. KER-RACK!! "Oooossshh. Ah!" Another kick.
Don stood up and surveyed the results of his efforts. Sam's body shook on the bench from his silent sobs. His buttocks were bright red, almost glowing in the dim light of the garage. "That's it, pal," Don said. "Get up."
As Sam struggled slowly and painfully to his feet, Don put the paddle back on his father's workbench where it would be available for future duty. Don stepped into the laundry room, quickly returning with a towel and a clean pair of underpants. He found Sam standing roughly at attention next to the bench. That wasn't the only thing at attention. Sam's penis was completely erect, proudly displaying its full seven inches. The athletic blond's excitement was further evidenced by the fact that his circumcised member was drooling, a clear strand of pre-cum dangling from the flared tip.
Don smiled, knowing now that Sam was excited by the paddling as much as he hated the pain involved. That was good news, promising a lot of fun for the future, but this was a serious exercise. To be effective, Don knew that punishment must be feared, not enjoyed - on any level. He would have to deal with that problem before the next punishment was administered. After towelling Sam dry, Don put the clean briefs on his friend and led him back into the house.
Sam wondered what was going on. He figured he was about to find out what the punishment would be for peeing in Don's bedroom. He wasn't particularly looking forward to finding out. Embarrassed by the erection he had after the paddling, Sam was glad that Don hadn't commented on it, although he suspected that respite wouldn't last forever.
Sam soon found himself standing miserably in the living room in front of Don, who sat in his father's easy chair, now a seat of judgment. "So, now we have to deal with your incontinence," Don intoned in his most official voice.
"My what?" Sam asked.
"Incontinence. When you failed to hold your water and pissed on my bedroom floor."
"Oh," Sam whispered.
"I've decided on something special, something that will really get your attention," Don said dramatically, reaching in his pocket with a flourish.
Sam gulped, mesmerized by the action of Don's hand. It seemed like he was expecting Don to pull a live snake out of his pocket. In fact Sam thought it might be a snake at first. Whatever it was, it didn't appear to be alive. It was long and round like a snake, but it look- ed reddish brown. Without his glasses, Sam thought he might be see- ing things. "Wh...what is that?" Sam asked unsteadily.
"Your worst nightmare. Rather, it used to be MY worst nightmare. This is the belt my parents used on me when I was kid." In fact, Don held the belt like it was a snake that was going to bite him. It had, after all, bit him often enough in the past.
Sam gulped again. His face, which had flushed bright red from the pain of his recent shame and punishment, seemed to drain of all color. He still didn't know what he was seeing. "What kind of belt is that?"
"A sewing machine belt," Don said. "They use them on the industrial sewing machines in the factory where my Mom works."
Sam eyed the two foot piece of leather nervously. "It looks fuzzy, kind of."
"Yeah," said Don. "It's made of some kind of special leather. I forget the name. It feels like felt, only a lot tougher."
"I bet." Sam tried to smile weakly.
"You already bet your ass... and lost," Don said. Smirking, the chubby but powerful boy suddenly lifted the leather snake up behind his right shoulder, wheeled, and snapped the belt down on the cloth covered ottoman that sat in front of the sofa. As the rough leather contacted the padded surface of the ottoman, a deep thudding crack rang out through the room.
Sam nearly jumped out of his skin. "Yo... you gotta be kidding!"
"No joke," said Don. "You get six licks with this on your bare ass for peeing in the house. I would advise going outside from now on."
"Noo!" said Sam. "Please, just use the paddle some more."
"Nope," said Don. "Six licks with this. Just as soon as I've got some more practice"
Sam looked on in horror as Don placed a throw pillow in the center of the ottoman and lashed it repeatedly with the belt. Sam gasped or gulped with nearly every explosive lick. Each time the reddish brown leather came down in a powerful arc, it bit deeply into the pillow, throwing up dust. This was like a nightmare. Sam knew he couldn't possibly take six licks like that.
Finally, after a dozen or so licks, Don threw the thoroughly beaten pillow back on the sofa. "Okay, pal. Your turn. Lay over the ottoman."
"No, wait a minute," said Sam. "That belt is too much! We need to negotiate this, just like with the paddle."
Don was about the get tough, then realized that Sam was nearing a state of panic. The blonde was shivering in the air conditioned room. He looked just about ready to pass out. Don decided to try one last time. He pointed towards the ottoman, silently ordering Sam to position himself for punishment.
"Noo, pleeaase!" Sam pleaded in the whining voice of a child.
Don thought of alternatives to forcing Sam into this situation, which may be too much for him. He left Sam stand there for about a minute, just in case he changed his mind and decided to submit. Nothing happened.
"Okay," said Don finally. "I'll give you a choice."
Sam looked at his friend, hope dawning on his face.
"Since we didn't decide on this punishment in advance," Don said, "I'll reduce the punishment to three licks this time."
The hope drained from Sam's face.
"Or," Don continued, "the six licks will be suspended. You won't get any now, but if you piss in the house again before the end of the plan, you get the full six licks for the first offense, plus six for the second offence. Twelve licks in all."
Sam gulped in horror, but still looked confused. "What happens if I take the three licks now?"
"You get only six licks the next time you piss in the house."
"You're assuming I'll pee in the house again."
"Correct. If you're sure you won't make that mistake again, you should take the suspended sentence. You'll end up escaping the belt altogether. On the other hand, if you doubt your ability to avoid pissing in the house again, you should take the three licks now. That will make nine total - three now and six later, as opposed to twelve in one session if you take the chance and fail."
Sam looked uncertain.
"So," Don said in his best Clint Eastwood voice, "do you feel lucky, punk?"
Sam rolled his eyes in disgust, but still seemed uncertain what to do. Don fondled the leather belt, and decided to lay a couple more licks of the belt on the ottoman. Sam was startled out of his revelry by the loud impacts. He quickly said, "I'll take the suspended sentence."
"Okay," Don said, "you realize that if you piss in the house again, you'll get twelve licks with the belt. No negotiation, no reprieve."
"Y..yes."
"Okay," said Don. "Have a seat on the sofa. I gotta go hang up your wet clothes to dry."
As Don left the room, Sam sat gingerly on the sofa. It felt like his underpants were full of angry bees who were stinging his bottom. It quickly became obvious that the blisters caused by the small holes in the paddle were beginning to form. Sam was glad that his butt had escaped the horrible leather belt... for now. He wondered if he made the right decision. Only time would tell.
-= THE END? =-
(This story is Copyright 1995 Bobby Watson, All Rights Reserved. Non-commercial use is allowed. Reprinting or other commercial use is prohibited without written permission of the author.)
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