Through the Window
|by Y Lee Coyote|
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: 05 Oct 2006
This story is fiction and deals with the strapping of a boy. If such subject is offensive, uninteresting or if you are a minor (i.e., child) please leave now.
This work is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission. Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete including the copyright notice.
The author would appreciate your comments – pro and con, including constructive criticism, and suggestions.
This is my first story in response to Realist II's challenge – a story to be based on the picture at: http://i89.photobucket.com/albums/k208/baumannd2/ShowingTheMarks.jpg My second story is Spanks for Power (id=11812) and Realist II's own story is Showing the Marks (id=11770). His story is far more complex than either of mine and well reading.
It was just an ordinary day as Richard Gibson accompanied his father back home. They lived in an apartment complex where Mr. Gibson was the manager. The complex consisted of two buildings with a service alley between the two buildings. As they turned into the alley, they saw a youth slip into the shed used to store equipment for cleaning and maintenance of the outside areas.
"What could he possibly want in there?" asked Mr. Gibson, "Just cleaning stuff in there."
"I don't know, Father." responded Richard, a very polite lad.
They were both surprised when they saw what the lad was doing as they looked through the window. They saw that the trespasser had dropped his jeans and was reaching about to lower his tightie-whites. Shocked, Richard continued to look through the window while his father rushed to the door a bit further on. By the time Mr. Gibson opened the door, the lad had not only squatted down but had already taken a dump on the floor.
"What the HELL are you doing, boy?" yelled the furious Mr. Gibson.
It was the lad's turn to be shocked and surprised. He lost control and soaked his pants that were still bunched about his lower legs. Of course, he did not have any answer for it was quite obvious what he had been doing, although he did manage to stutter a lot.
"It's bad enough that people don't pick up after their dogs but for you to leave a mess. That's disgraceful, boy."
Forrest just stared at his wet pants and the ground. Richard just stared at Forrest. He was most glad that he was not the object of his father's wrath.
"Pick that up, boy."
"Yes, Sir." Forrest replied, very grateful that the man had tossed him a piece of cardboard. He collected his droppings on the cardboard and then looked up waiting further instructions. He did not have to wait long.
"Put it in the trash outside, boy. Don't try to pull up your pants until I say to." Mr. Gibson ordered. He stood by the door and grabbed Forrest's collar. Mr. Gibson walked and Forrest hobbled to the trash can where he made his donation. He waited for instructions although he desperately wanted to flee. There was no way to run hobbled by his wet jeans and being held by his collar. He was led back into the confines of the shed.
Forrest stared as Mr. Gibson slowly pulled his thick leather belt from his pants. Richard knew exactly how painful that belt could be and was most glad that he would not be getting a refresher course. By now he was watching the show (as he would later call it) from the open door. Several other kids had come by and were also watching.
"BEND OVER AND HOLD YOUR ANKLES, BOY!" came the rough command.
Forrest gulped but did as he was told. The audience smiled in appreciation. Mr. Gibson raised the belt for the first time and brought it down on the very naughty boy's bottom. The boy howled. The belt left a wide red strip. Richard smiled. Twenty more times did the belt strike the target leaving both long and short lasting impressions on the boy and turning his bottom deep crimson.
"Get up, boy." Forrest stood up and rubbed his red-hot tail.
"Use the hose to wash your piss down the drain at the far end, boy." He pointed at the hose attached to the tap next to the open door.
"Yes, Sir." Forrest replied and started to pull up his wet pants.
"Leave them down, boy." barked the angry Mr. Gibson.
"Yes, Sir." As Forrest hobbled to the tap, he saw his appreciative audience and was mortified. It was bad enough to be exposed to one's punisher but far worse with a crowd. He hoped that there was no one that knew him. He grabbed the hose and turned the tap. The flushing did not take long. He returned the hose. He thought about what to say but nothing really seemed appropriate. "I'm sorry, Sir." was all he could manage.
Mr. Gibson led him to the edge of the property. "You'll be sorry if you ever set foot back here again, boy. Now scram!"
Forrest bent over and pulled up his wet pants and scampered across the street. He would not forget this mortification for the rest of his life.
© Copyright A.I.L., October 4, 2006
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