Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 17 Dec 2016
Doug let me sleep til 7 that Saturday morning. After showering, getting cleaned up, and dressed in khaki shorts, a t-shirt, and flip flops, I sat down to a hurried breakfast he had prepared for me.
While eating, I asked if Brandon had showed up, and Mr. Dunham said,
No, and I’ve called the hospitals
and police, but nothing. If you should hear anything, Connor, I want you to let me know right away. We can only hope he’s alright.
I promised I would. After that, I packed my things and headed off for almost 2 hours more to review before my final began at 10 a.m.
My last final of summer school was over at 1 p.m. I was finished with my second summer school!
What a relief! Now I could let down, relax a little, and pack for the trip home and almost 6 weeks of break before returning for fall semester.
When I walked into Mrs. Evans’ house, Doug was waiting for me.
How’d it go, Connor? he asked.
I told him it didn’t seem terribly difficult, but I could never be sure until the grades came out. He had me sit down and eat a quick lunch, while he told me what needed to be done.
We had to pack me up for almost 6 weeks; we had to do a final clean-up of Nana Evans’ house, so she would not be upset to return home and find her house a mess. But before we could do either one, he was going to take me with him to go to Winthrop beach to see if Brandon was there.
If he’s there, we’re going to bring him home, Connor. He has to get ready and pack too. He knows he can’t stay here, and he can certainly join in and help out in the last minute cleaning.
Again I wondered why he included me in the
we’re of bringing Brandon home. Nonetheless, I knew better than to voice my thoughts, and just got in the car, giving him directions to get to Winthrop beach.
When we arrived, it was almost 4 p.m., a beautiful, warm, partly sunny afternoon, with light, ocean breeze. We parked and began the trek across the sandy beach over to the lifeguard building. Doug opened the door, waited for me to go in first, and entered.
We’re looking for Brandon Eastgate. Have you seen him? Doug inquired.
Who want’s to know, and what for? a tall, skinny, young man, in orange bathing trunks similar to those Brandon wore, replied asking.
Doug was irked at once by the impertinence of the young lifeguard.
Look, kid, it’s none of your business. I’m his Uncle, this is his cousin, Connor, and we need to get hold of him. It’s important, and personal. That’s all you need to know. Understand?
The brash, young lifeguard was taken aback by Doug’s brusqueness, but responded more appropriately.
Ah, I’m, ah, sorry, sir. He’s on the stand down the beach to the right of this shack here, facing the
ocean, ah,... of course.
Thank you. We’ll find him. Come on, Connor. Doug’s reply was succinct.
We left and trudged maybe 900 feet to a lifeguard stand. As we approached, I recognized the lean, slim, chiseled-body of the falcon perched atop the lifeguard stand, looking out toward the ocean.
Nearing the lifeguard seat, Doug told me to go climb up and tell Brandon we had come to get him. I hated having to do that, but knew I could not refuse. Climbing up caught Brandon’s attention, and he looked down at me with wondering eyes as I neared where he was seated.
Connor! What’re you doing here, man?! he asked staring in my eyes.
Brandon, Doug and I are here. He sent me to tell you we’ve come to get you.
Those words made him look past me, where he saw Doug Dunham standing, arms folded, waiting. Brandon’s face reflected a harried look. He muttered flatly to me,
I’m not going, Connor. Just leave.
I stepped back down from the high, lifeguard seat. Doug must have deduced I could not get Brandon to come.. Grabbing hold of Brandon’s ankle, he jerked the lean, young lifeguard hard, toppling him off the perch on which he was seated, to tumble forward toward the ground.
As he fell splayed on the sand, Brandon felt Mr. Dunham reach down and grab Brandon’s thin, tan arm, pulling him to his feet. Grasping the falcon’s narrow wrist in his larger, strong hand, Mr. Dunham began tugging the resistant boy behind him toward the lifeguard office.
At the office, Mr. Dunham opened the door, shoved Brandon inside, following him, and directed him to get his things to bring with him, before they left.
No! I’m not, um, doing it. I’m not going!
The young lifeguard’s face looked serious, but his voice had the hollow sound of someone trying to persuade himself of an unsure declaration.
Yes, you are, Brandon. You are coming with us, Doug answered flatly.
Like hell! the now irked young man reacted.
What did you say?!
I told you I’m naaaaht!...
A determined Doug Dunham at once hoisted the trim, young lifeguard up into the air, manhandling him slightly. Shocked, Brandon protested, trying to grapple against the hold. Flailing around in the air, he was deposited face down, dumped upended over Mr. Dunham’s lap.
Aaaa-nooo-aaaa, let go of meeeee,... aaaaa-nooo-aaa! You caaaaan’t... uh-aaa-dooo-uh-thissss!
Nooo-aaa! You, ah, can’t do tha-aaat! Noooo, ah, you can’t spank meeeee!... ah, waaa-aaaait!
I surely can, and, as I’ve warned you before, I am definitely going to do just that, as you are about to find out. Boys like you need to be punished severely, and often. You are going to learn a lesson now you will never forget, young man.
Brandon’s panicked, frantic eyes met those of the few, other, young lifeguards standing riveted in the shack, watching what was happening to their friend and colleague.
No-noooo, I’m not! You are nahhht going to taaaake-aaa-meeee-aaaaa-nooooo-aaaaa-let me-gooo, let me up! Let go-uhv-meeeee!
Brandon exploded, squirming and struggling on Doug Dunham’s lap.
Not wasting any unnecessary time, Mr. Dunham reached down, grabbed the young man’s right arm, pulled it upward, bent and twisted it back up into the youthful, bare back, securing the overturned young man in his hold.
I knew Doug Dunham was much stronger than he looked, and definitely than Brandon (and me). Confined across Mr. Dunham’s lap, the lean, long falcon felt even weaker, smaller, seized with panicked fear, at his arm being twisted up toward his shoulder blades.
Immediately, he launched a fierce and intense struggle, trying to break free, only to have his arm further wrenched so painfully he cried out until he ceased his grappling. Doug’s big, right hand began a torrent of smacks to the damp, bathing trunks wrapped tightly around the upended, young man’s narrow posterior.
He gasped sharply as the strong hand crashed down hard on his bottom. Turning to look back and up, over his shoulder, he saw Doug Dunham’s powerful, raised hand repeatedly and rapidly descend, fiercely smacking the thin seat of the falcon’s bathing suit, while he was calling out his protests and objections at each sharp, smiting smack.
Stop this now! Stop it! You can’t come here and-aaaa-make-uh-meeee-aaaaa-force me-to-dooooo-aaa-thissss-aaa-ow-ow-go-aaa-with-youuuuu-ah-ow-ow-aaaa-ow-ow-stuh-aaaa-ow-ah-ow-ow-spuh-uh-ow-uh-aaaankeeeng-ghaaa-uh-uh-meeeeee!
The mounting pain and pressure of the moment forced out that word that would have been unthinkable to blurt out in public until this moment. Mr. Dunham applied a repetitive cadence of swats to the inverted, lean, young lifeguard’s backside with his big, granite hand.
How could this be happening?! And here! in public!
Neither Brandon, nor his young friends and fellow lifeguards standing there watching with astonished eyes, could believe he was being spanked, at his age, and position. From their faces it was obvious they were fixated on the spectacle unfolding before them.
He tried to fight back, to wriggle away, but the grip on his right hand and arm, twisted up into his back, held him firmly in place while the other hand kept on spanking him with painfully sharp, hard smacks.
In this scandalously humiliating setting, he also rushed to try to be stoic, tough it out, take it like a man, trying to show himself to be a man in control of himself and his life, before all eyes glued on his squirming, bucking form hanging over Mr. Dunham’s knee.
Ow-ow-huh-uh-ooo-aaa-uh-ow-uh-you-caaan’t-ow-owo-huh-uh-mah-aaake-uh-uh-meeee-uh-oooo-ow-ow-ow-aaaa-ow! he cried out.
The spanking to the now-warm, damp, thin, seat of his bathing suit was heating up more. The longer it went on, the harder it was for him to focus and concentrate on what all was taking place.
His brain was having increasing trouble comprehending what his ears were hearing and what his butt was feeling, with the latter steadily eclipsing the former. His resolve to
take it – to
last it out – like a man eroded, then vanished.
As it became evident he couldn’t ignore, overcome, or prevent this, the urgency of having to get it stopped began dominating what thoughts he could muster. His bottom felt like an inferno, and he felt his emotions starting to unravel, taking control.
Feeling as if he were about to lose his balance, his attention was torn to suddenly finding his bathing suit being ripped down his hips and over his globes, baring the deeply red-marked cheeks and upper thighs.
Aaaaaa, nooo-hoooo! Brandon protested frantically.
Nah-aht thah-aaaat! You caaaan’t! Not baaare! Nooooo-aaaaa-ooooo-hoooo-eeeyow-ow-aaaa-ow-oooooo-ow! he screeched. The urgent desperation in his voice was unmistakeable to all.
He resumed his struggle to try to get free, to get away. He did not see Mr. Dunham pull out a small hair brush to begin wielding the flat back against the upended, young lifeguard’s bottom.
Ow-ow-ow-aaa-ow-ow-uh-ooo-uh-noooo-uh-staaaahp-aaaa-stop-it-stuh-oppp-uh-spuh-uh-aaaang-ghuh-ennng-uh-meeeee-uh-ow-ow-ow! Nooo-ooo-uh-moooore! He shrieked with a new, more intense, humbling, and defeating pain.
I knew that would get your attention, get through to you, boy! Doug remarked as he popped the small hair brush all over every unspanked inch of Brandon’s rump and upper thighs.
He brought the small, hard, wooden brush down, again and again, on tender, hypersensitive, undercurves of Brandon’s slim, bare mounds, precipitating the young man arching up, then bucking furiously in response to the pain.
We’ll see how quickly this changes your attitude and talk, and adds a little persuasion.
In feverish desperation, he thrashed around on Mr. Dunham’s left knee as much as the wrenching grip on his right arm allowed. His feet were kicking as he bucked and writhed wildly.
Glancing over at his young friends and fellow lifeguards, with gazes magnetized by the events transpiring, he frantically wondered why there were just standing there watching? Why weren’t they helping, taking action, intervening to halt this ignominious agony being inflicted on his rearend?
Help! Aaaaa-ooooo-ow-aaaa-ow-ow-huh-uh-help-uh-uh-meeeee! he screamed.
Quickly, he was oblivious to the audience in the lifeguard building, witnessing him receiving the worst disciplinary spanking of his entire 20 years. His face was nearly as red as his bottom.
When Doug Dunham concluded that sizzling licking, and pulled Brandon up off his lap, the defeated young lifeguard danced, stomped, and jumped in place, rubbing his blistered bottom furiously, with a protruding hard-on bobbing upward and out. Only then did he remember, with embarrassment and shame, his friends and fellow lifeguards who were spectators to his spanking, and also now his boner.
Nevertheless, there was no time to do anything else. Doug Dunham retrieved and held Brandon’s bathing suit for him to step into and pulled it up the lean, lanky legs, over the wounded thighs and rump, evoking a hissing cry and moan as it scraped the recalcitrant youth’s seared globes.
Doug stepped forward, grasped the falcon’s, skinny, long arm with his left hand, and began turning him, moving him out of the lifeguard’s shack. Steering him along the beach toward the direction where we had parked, he kept on delivering hard, solid swats to the wet seat of Brandon’s tight, little bathing suit.
Stunned by the events in which he was mired, Brandon was jumping forward, while turning to look back at Mr. Dunham, holding the falcon firmly in his grip.
I’m not waiting any longer for you to obey, young man. Do you understand me? he added, continuing
to swat the falcon’s curved, small bum.
Despite the stinging pain, the falcon erupted, boiling over with anger and humiliation. His self-control snapped.
Aaaaaaaugh! Staaaahp! Cut it out, Duh-uh-ughaaaaaa! I’m not a kid, you can’t doooo this to meeee!
he shouted, trying to apply resistance, to stop, the fast, sharp barrage of swats to his hurting bottom.
He was infuriated at being treated like a small child, directed and disciplined, and in front of his fellow lifeguards and the public! His ears, neck, shoulders, and face flushed crimson, even redder than the smack-marks under his bathing trunks on his bottom and thighs.
Squirming, twisting, kicking up sand, he swivelled and swerved his hips and buttocks, attempting unsuccessfully to avoid the swats being applied to the seat of his orange lifeguard shorts. Trudging, stomping and jumping, the falcon looked like a resisting toddler being spanked while being pulled along the beach.
You’d better just chuck that attitude, Mister. One way or another – the second one being a lot worse, a lot more painful and embarrassing to you – you are coming with us!
He emphasized his warning with continuing series of swats to the thin, wet, nylon seat clinging to Brandon’s
Realizing he was being publicly embarrassed on the spot, nonetheless, he knew he had no real escape or way of halting what was happening. His wrenching body was trembling with anger, fear, and self-consciousness as he twisted and turned, forcefully trying to pull away from his grip and stomping across the sand.
In reaction to this opposition, Mr. Dunham tightened his left-handed grip on Brandon’s left biceps, continuing to unleash hard, rapid-fire, staccato volley after volley of swats to the protesting young lifeguard’s rearend. The spanks propelled him to jump upward and forward, while writhing around, from side to side, trying in vain to evade the unceasing spanking.
Do you understand me, young man?! he demanded, waiting in the self-consciously obvious silence for Brandon’s reply.
Ye-essss-uh-Duh-uhg-uh-aaaaa! he shouted his shaky-voiced reply.
Mr. Dunham released Brandon’s arm only when we got to the end of the beach at the parking area. Weeping, shuddering, red-faced, the falcon stood shattered, with one hand urgently clasping his butt through his bathing suit. He was so disgraced.
Doug demanded Brandon’s keys from him. He hesitated for a second or two, before fearfully and grudgingly handing them over.
Connor, I’m going to trust you to drive Brandon’s car back to Mrs. Evans’ house. You can follow us there. Don’t do anything risky, just drive along following us. Understand?
I nodded as he handed me the keys to Brandon’s car. It had been months since I’d driven a car, so I was bit more cautious than ordinary, and it took a little longer to get back to Nana Evans’ house.
Doug pulled up to the house, but waited for me to pull into the drive way first. He then drove in behind Brandon’s car.
I got out and locked the car, as the falcon flew into Nana Evans’ house. I joined them, Doug and Brandon (in just his bathing suit). We were all together in the kitchen, with Brandon still whimpering with reddened eyes, standing barefoot as if waiting for something.
What is it, boy?! Doug barked his question disdainfully at the falcon who seemed to shrink back under the interrogative blast. Brandon inhaled deeply, as if trying to recover some composure.
Why-y’d you spank me? he asked in a heavily lachrymose voice.
You didn’t have to spank me in front of everybody at the beach, all the lifeguards and the others! You humiliated me before everyone!
Look, Brandon-bratty-Eastgate, you refused to listen and obey. You told Connor here you weren’t coming down as I sent word with him for you to do. You told me you weren’t going with us, in the lifeguard shack. You shouted, protesting, all the way across the beach until we got to the car.
What did you think would happen? Did you really think we’d just leave you, turn around and go away? You brought on yourself everything that happened to you today, everything you got. As usual, Mr. Hotshot, you earned everything you got, and everything else you have coming to you.
Go upstairs and start packing for the next 6 weeks. When you’re finished, get into the shower and then into your bed. I’ll wake you for dinner, and after that you’re back into your bed for the night.
Tomorrow, we’re up for early mass, and we have to finish cleaning up Mrs. Evans’ house before we leave for the train.
All during summer school, Doug and I went to mass every Sunday, and he drove me to Catholic youth in the evening. Brandon did not go because he was working all day at the beach. Now, he would be resuming going with us.
Trudging weeping up the stairs, the falcon went directly to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, he pulled off his bathing suit, observing a mirror the repetitive, differing levels of dark, red, marks on his buttocks and upper thighs, as the shorts fell to the floor.
Stepping into the cascading shower, he began soaping up to wash. Standing there, all at once, the emotional thrust of the events that had befallen him at Winthrop beach – being pulled down off the lifeguard stand, spanked bare in the lifeguard office, and marched across the beach in public, being spanked, all overwhelmed him.
He began weeping uncontrollably. Frustrated and shamed, he loathed being treated, and feeling, at his age, like a weak, helpless, naughty, little, punished child. As the tears welled up and burst forth, Brandon stood slightly slumped under the showerhead, shaking and sobbing.
At the same time his young rod began bobbing, growing, elongating, thickening with arousal. Pouring shampoo on his head, and with some in his hand, he began stroking and pumping the hungering shaft until, feet spread apart and leaning backwards, he shot up and out, firing over and over, discharging semen into the shower, while waves of excitement and relief swept over him, assuaging his anguished, abased feelings of frustration and shame.
Finishing showering, rinsing all traces of his ejaculation away, he dried, and wrapped a towel around himself. Putting on deodorant, he brushed his teeth and hair, and walked slowly and stiffly back into his bedroom, his backside and upper legs killing him.
Instead of his usual boxer briefs, he pulled on an old, clean pair of loose boxers, followed by an equally old, loose pair of basketball shorts, pulled a t-shirt down over his head, arms, shoulders, and torso, walked over and flopped face down on his bed. He lay there trembling softly and slightly, weeping quietly, steeping in feelings of loneliness, sadness, hopelessness, and helpless frustration.
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