A COUNTRY BOYSPANKING
by
PEIGN N. DYESS
COPYRIGHT 2004 BY BOBB B. TUCKER. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF
THIS STORY MAY BE REPRODUCED OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY
MEANS, INCLUDING MECHANICAL OR ELECTRONIC, WITHOUT PERMISSION IN
WRITING FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNER.
THREE COUNTRY BOYS GET RED HOT BOTTOMS
Ben Kealan's mother knew in her heart that her son wouldn't make it through
summer vacation without another run in with the Pittsburgh police. The previous
summer, when he was eleven, he was caught breaking into parking meters and spent
three weeks in the Alleghenny County Juvenile Detention Home. So when her brother,
Tommy Funderburke, who raised dairy cattle outside Berkley Springs, West Virginia,
offered to take the boy in for the summer, Thelma Kealan accepted gratefully. It'll be
Ben's chance to escape the North Side for the summer, put meat on his bones, and be
exposed to a man's influence for the first time since his Daddy died, she reasoned.
Ben's father, a Pittsburgh fireman, was killed in a warehouse blaze when the boy was
eight. Uncle Tommy Funderburke and his identical twin thirteen-year-old boys, Josh
and Jason, met Benjamin's Greyhound in Berkley Springs three days after Pittsburgh
schools let out for the summer. The twins were cute as a shower-roomful of middle
school boys after gym class. Each had a wealth of Irish black hair that curled in ringlets
over his forehead, and the angelic smile of a choirboy. Ben felt right at home and
quickly settled into the routine of life on a West Virginia dairy farm.
By their natures, pubescent boys are ornery and obdurate critters, headstrong,
impossible to please. With that in mind, Uncle Tommy wasn't surprised when
his nephew and sons got into trouble for neglecting chores to skinny-dip in the
Cacapon River. A week later, they took his tractor for a forbidden spin through
the north pasture, knocking over a fence and letting out a dozen cows. He then
laid down law: "If you guys mess up one more time," he warned, "I will convene
a general courts martial to hear what you have to say for yourselves. Then, I
will introduce the three of you to a taste of old fashioned country discipline."
Uncle Tommy had served as a U.S. Navy corpsman and retained enough sailor's
jargon that Ben and the twins sometimes called him "Skipper."
The boys nodded, but Uncle Tommy might as well have been berating his cows for
giving too little milk.
On a crisp and sunny Sunday morning, midway through the summer, the three boys
fished for crappies in the Cacapon River; with time to kill before a late breakfast, they
stopped at the general store on the Old Cacapon Road, pooled resources, and
discovered they hadn't enough money between them for a pack of tailor-mades. But
they came up with just the right amount to buy the makings of roll yer owns, a sackful
of AMERICAN CHOICE tobacco and ZIG-ZAG rolling papers. They ducked into an
unused shed behind the milking barn and clumsily hand-rolled cigarettes from rolling
paper, spit and tobacco and smoked two cigarettes each before heading up to the
farmhouse for Sunday brunch.
Aunt Ellen, the twins' mother, glanced through the kitchen window to see black smoke
billowing from the shed where the boys had been a few moments earlier. Uncle Tommy
grabbed a fire extinguisher and put out the blaze before it spread to the barn, then
lined up the boys and demanded, "What do you guys know about the fire?"
"Who, us, Skipper?" Ben asked with the evasiveness of a schoolboy caught peeking
through the girls' locker room window. "Why would we know anything about it, sir?"
"Fires don't start by themselves, mister. Something started it."
"It could've been lightning," Josh suggested.
"It could have been, but it wasn't," his dairyman shot back. "There isn't a rain-cloud
in the sky. Drop your pants and pull your shirts up, boys, all of you."
The boys grumbled but obeyed. Uncle Tommy found tobacco, matches, and rolling
papers in Ben's underpants. "Lightning, my ass," he growled.
"All the kids smoke, Daddy," Jason rationalized. "There's nothin' else to do in this
boring town."
The uncle ground the cigarette makings into the dirt with his heel and said, "You guys
are smart enough to realize that you've not finished smoking for the day." Three pairs
of Celtic-blue eyes widened in alarm.
"That's right, boys; directly after dinner, you three will hie on up to the second floor
sitting-room, strip to your Jockey shorts, and stand in the corner. I'll allow you time to
think about at you did; at ten-thirty, I'll come up with a strap and make your backsides
smoke like 1974 Yugos. It will be a triple punishment for buying cigarettes, for
smoking, and for being so careless with fire that you dang near burned down the
milking barn."
Aunt Ellen prepared eggs, potatoes and country gravy for Sunday brunch; the
boys toyed listlessly with their food. After the meal, they stopped at the second
floor bathroom, formed a semicircle about the toilet, opened pants, fished out
penises, and turned on the waterworks. "Whadda you guys reckon gettin' a spanking
is gonna be like?" Ben posed over the splash-splash of urine.
Jason brushed a cowlick from his eyes and said, "He spanked us pretty hard last
spring ‘cause we set off a firecracker under the outhouse on a church youth camp-out
and scared the shit outta Father Harrigan. He said once we learn to jack and grow
peach fuzz down around our nuts he'll do it with a strap. Mom's prob'ly told him
she's found stains on our pajama pants, and we've got a few cockhairs now, so he'll
prob'ly use his belt."
"Did you guys cry?" Ben asked solicitously.
"It didn't tickle," Jason said. "The Skipper used to be a Navy corpsman, that's
like a doctor's helper, so he knows where the nerves are in a kid's ass. And he
knows how to do it so it really hurts a boy."
The cousins shook their penises, tucked them back into their trousers, and zipped up.
"We'd better wait in the parlor like Daddy told us to, you guys," Josh said. "We don't
want him any more pissed off at us than he already is." Ben squared his shoulders
manfully and tagged after his cousins to the parlor, an austerely furnished room replete
with pine paneling on the walls and an immaculately scrubbed wood floor. A plain
wooden table sat by the east window; a Seth Thomas clock hung on the far wall next
to a cedar armoire. The room's Spartan decor made it an ideal setting in which to
spank feckless young boys. Benjamin unbuckled his belt and thumbed down his pants
and Jockeys; his cousins snickered nervously at his semi-erect penis. "You look stupid
with your pecker hangin' out, Benjy," Jason said.
"Not as stupid as you guys will look when your daddy comes in and finds your
pants still up," Ben shot back. The twins thought it over and dropped their pants
and underwear. "It ain't like there'll be any shemales here," Ben pointed out. "We're
all guys; your dad's got a weenie the same as us."
Benjamin Michael Kealan chomped diligently on a mouthful of Fleers Double Bubble
Gum. He had mixed feelings about getting his first hiding. His best friend back in
Pittsburgh, Andy Kownacki, still got spanked; Ben had seen bruises on his butt in
the YMCA swimming pool and envied him a daddy who applied the Heavy Hand of
Discipline. When Ben's mother told him of his summer visit to West Virginia and
advised him to obey his aunt and uncle, the boy stubbornly resisted the notion of
altering his behavior. In a sense, he was testing Uncle Tommy to see what he could
get away with. So far, it had amounted to shirking chores to skinny-dip in the Cacapon
and taking the tractor for a joy ride that resulted in a damaged fence. Buying cigarettes
that morning had been his idea, too. Only he would ever know that he had carelessly
started the fire that morning.
"We still have a few minutes," Jason said. "Maybe Daddy will change his mind and let
us off with a talkin' to."
"Don't count on it," Ben said. He stood naked in the corner nearest the clock, head
hung, shoulders slumped, studying his prepuce. The twins shared the corner by the
armoire. Three bottoms tautened, three half-grown penises sprang to attention when
footsteps on the stairs announced Uncle Tommy's approach. "Jeezum," Josh sputtered,
"he said he'd be up at ten-thirty; he's ten minutes early."
Tommy Funderburke stood in the doorframe, a towel slung over one shoulder, gray
eyes resolute. He carried a rifle sling that smelled of neat's-foot oil. He had changed
into camouflaged hunting clothes. Ben recalled that he, the twins, and Uncle Tommy
had a date to hunt turkeys that afternoon. The dairyman's steel gray eyes took in the
near-naked boys without missing a detail. "It's time to find out if you kids have big
brass balls in your scrotums," he said.
"Unc'a Tommy, couldn't'cha let us off with a talkin' to?" Ben implored.
Uncle Tommy smiled thinly. "You lucked out this time, Benjamin," he said. "In the
Funderburke household, the strap is reserved for boys who've passed their thirteenth
birthday; you'll have to wait 'til next summer when you'll have some peach fuzz around
your privates to feel the leather on your heiney."
The towhead peered up at his uncle, his handsome sun-bronzed face a study in
conflicting emotions. "Does that mean I ain't gonna get a licking'?" he asked
hopefully.
"Don't count on, mister. I said you won't get a whipping; I made no such promise
about an old-fashioned spanking."
"I kinda figured there'd be a catch to it," the Pittsburgh boy mumbled. "Do you
gotta do it right now, Unc'a Tommy? You said you'd do it at ten thirty. It's ten
twenty-two; we got eight minutes left."
"Ben, the sooner we get started, the sooner it'll be over for you guys and the three of
us can oil our Brownings, get out in the woods, and bring down a couple fat gobblers
for the freezer."
"Are we still going hunting, Daddy?" Jason asked. "Ain't'cha gonna send us to our room
or something after you whup us?"
The dairyman tousled his son's shaggy hair. "I don't think that will be necessary,"
he said. "You guys are getting triple doses of Bayer Ass Burns for what you did.
That should get the point across without adding room restriction to the punishment."
Ben licked his lips nervously. "Who's gonna be first?" he asked.
"Before we begin,, you little firebugs are to step right on out of your underpants,"
the uncle directed. "In a few moments the three of you will be clutching red-hot
asscheeks, dancing in circles, and whoopin' like Comanches on the warpath. Unless
you take your undies off, someone's legs will tangle in his Jockeys and he'll take a
nasty fall. You may remove your shirts, too, or leave them on, whichever way you
guys feel more comfortable."
The boys finished stripping in silence. Uncle Tommy smiled and said, "It isn't necessary
to cover your tallywackers, gentlemen I can see you have boners. Boys have gotten
anticipation erections since the first cave man put his son over his knee and walloped
his butt. It happens because you're scared and stressed and your testicles are
pumping hormones into your blood streams to help you through a frightening
situation."
A look of surprised understanding flashed across Ben Kealan's face. "I thought I'm the
only guy who gets hard-ons, Unc'a Tommy," he admitted shyly.
"You were born with a woodie, Benjamin; at your age, you probably get two or three
a day. Chances are one day, you'll die with a woodie. Boys, are there any further
questions? If not, let's get on with it." There were no questions. "You twins are to
face the table with the tips of your dinguses touching wood; bend over and present
your heinders. Ben will go first; while I'm attending to him, you two are to hold still as
church mice without looking back to see what's happening to Ben."
With faces wheyey as dead boys on an embalmer's slab, the twins assumed the
fanny-up position over the table. Tommy Funderburke gave each a fatherly clap on his
backside. "you guys are to look straight ahead while Benjamin is being punished. You
two are teenagers now; Ben will be a teenager shortly. Starting today, you will conduct
yourselves accordingly, or this will be but the first of many visits that you and I will pay
to this room. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"
"Aye, aye, sir!" the twins chorused.
Ben glanced surreptitiously at the Casio Forester on his wrist, a Christmas gift from
his mom. It was spanking time. His uncle sat on a straight-backed wooden chair and
beckoned for him to approach. "Let's do it, mister," he said, handing the lad a towel.
"Tuck this under your pecker; bend as sharply as you can over my leg; hold still while
I'm spanking you." He stood Ben between his thighs, facing the window.
"I won't need that," Ben said of the towel. "I ain't gonna pee like a pissy-pants little
kid while I'm gettin' it."."
"The towel will protect my pants in case of an accidental discharge of semen," Uncle
Tommy said. "Boys commonly have accidents when they wiggle during a spanking;
squirming causes friction on the penis, which can trigger an ejaculation."
A quizzical expression flashed over Ben's sun-bronzed face. "You mean I might
cum?" he asked. "It's bad enough I'm gonna be spanked naked with a boner in front
of a bunch of guys; If I get my nuts off, you'll all think I'm a little homo."
The dairyman gave his nephew's mini erection an avuncular tweak and said, "Your
uncle and cousins hardly constitute a 'bunch of guys,' Benjamin. It's also quite
possible that the twins will ejaculate while I'm taking the strap to them; it depends
on how much they wiggle and how long it's been since they last masturbated or had
a wet dream." He jackknifed the boy into the nude-bottom-presented-for-punishment
position and pinioned his legs to discourage kicking and bucking. He then placed a
hand over Ben's kidneys and pressed down hard to steady him. To a twelve-year-old
raised by a widowed mother without a dad or brothers in the house, a boy's first
spanking is a scary venture in unknown territory. Ben had known since age ten that his
pants and Underoos badly needed to be taken down, his bottom needed to be spanked
blue by a surrogate-dad who'd accept no sass from a smart-alecky little kid. But when
he and his best friend, Andy Kownacki, stole change from Andy's mom's purse, he was
sent home, rather than marched to the basement and spanked, alongside Andy, by Mr.
Kownacki. Later, walking home along Buena Vista Street, Ben had felt cheated of the
hiding he believed he had earned.
Tommy Funderburke flicked an imaginary dust speck from Ben's butt and said,
"Pucker your white Irish fanny, grit your teeth, and thank your lucky stars you aren't
getting the strap like your cousins, mister."
The boy craned up at his uncle reproachfully. "You're humiliating me, sir," he said.
"Is that what I'm doing?"
"Yes, sir it sure as heck is." With that, the flat of Uncle Tommy's hand descended
on the culprit's butt with a crack like a rifle shot. A whoosh of air escaped Ben's lungs;
with it came a saliva-covered pink gob the size of the first joint of his thumb. Ben
stared at the wad of Fleers' Double Bubble Gum on the floor with the expression of
a boy who doesn't fully comprehend that his spanking has begun. An angry red
welt, the size and shape of his uncle's palm, emblazoned his taut buttocks. He tried
to roll onto one side, away from the pain, but couldn't because his legs were pinned.
He tried desperately to kick, but couldn't do that either because Uncle Tommy was
holding his legs in a mousetrap grip. Clearly, young Ben was being spanked by an
experienced boyspanker who knew how to immobilize a misbehaved youngster for
corporal punishment and how to apply maximum pain to his bottom. When Ben tried
to reach back to cover himself, Uncle Tommy intercepted his hand and held his wrist
until the spanking was over. "OW! IT HURTS, SKIPPER!" Ben protested with an
agonized soprano shriek.
The dairy farmer tousled his nephew's sticky-up hair, patted his pink heinie
affectionately, and resumed the spanking. Ben had taken a very sharp whack
to his naked buttocks without crying; his uncle was determined to remedy that.
The towhead accepted his punishment , not as a man with big brass balls in his
sac, but as a boy who hadn't quite reached puberty. Tommy Funderburke's
work-callused hand struck again; simultaneously, Ben twitched and farted and had his
spermarche, his first ever emission of seminal fluid. The ejaculate soaked through
the towel he was lying on and left a damp spot on Uncle Tommy's camouflage hunting
pants. Ejaculating boys buck like copulating billy-goats; young Ben was no exception.
What felt to his uncle like a roll of quarters rubbing his thigh was attached to Ben's
underbelly and had just proved itself in first-class working order.
Benjamin Michael Kealan did exactly what he'd resolved not to do he cried. At
first, his wails were drawn-out and lorn, the howls of a distant timber wolf. As the
beating progressed and his bottom grew redder and hotter, he began to holler in
earnest; his free arm flailed as if fending off the nightcreatures that often haunt the
dreams of pre teenaged boys. A snot bubble, the size of a Ping-Pong ball, balooned
from his left nostril and hung there like a yellow Christmas tree ornament. Tommy
Funderburke buckled down and spanked as vigorously as if he were killing
copperheads, applying a stinging swat for each birthday Ben had celebrated to his bare
behind. Uncle Tommy took care to ensure that the naked youngster over his lap would
leave the parlor with basic insights into the consequences of boyish misbehavior.
Disobeying orders, Jason and Josh craned about to watch their cousin get his
comeuppances. They stood awkwardly, facing the front window, leaning over a
table to present grinning bare backsides for what they knew would be the most painful
experience of their lives. Boy-sized penises, hard as railroad spikes, jutted from their
loins like the bowsprits of old-time clipper ships. Uncle Tommy finished with Ben and
appraised his naked sons bemusedly. "Next time I'll have you guys drink a cup of
herbal tea laced with saltpeter an hour before I whip you," he said. "That's the Navy's
remedy for randy young seamen who've been too long at sea."
Ben leapt from his uncle's lap and commenced yelping and sobbing and hopping in
circles about the room, his body leaking from both ends, snot and slobber from his
nose and mouth, semen from his waggling penis. He didn't wipe away a telltale rivulet
of boycum trickling down his thigh; quite the contrary, he was proud as punch of the
irrefutable evidence of his newfound manliness and determined that all present see it
for themselves. His uncle snapped the rifle sling against his thigh, turned to his
terrified sons, and said, "It's your turn, fellas."
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