A Night to Remember
|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: 07 Mar 2010
There was an art review in the New York Times about an exhibition of Charles Addams' cartoons at the Museum of the City of New York. The image that caused this brief story is at: http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2010/03/05/arts/20100305-addams-slideshow_index.html You may, of course, Google for «"Charles Addams" "Subway Hand"» to find more. You should know that his cartoons tended to the macabre. I'll describe this one: on a deserted dark street, a lone gentleman approaches a subway entrance from which a hand with the index finger beckoning protrudes.
The following story is fiction about spanking. The story contains scenes of spanking. If this subject is offensive, uninteresting or if you are a minor (i.e., child) please leave now.
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It was only an hour until dawn on a Sunday morning and I had finally caught up with my paper work. Exhausted, I left my office and headed for the subway a block away. I felt as if I was in a sci-fi story since it seemed that I was the only one in the world for I did not see anyone else and every office was dark. The only (human) light was at the far end of the block illuminating the subway entrance.
I walked rapidly towards the light marking the steps that descended into the nether world where the train to home, with my warm bed to rest my weary bones, lurked in long unknown tunnels amid creatures I knew not.
I was but few steps from it when I saw it. I stood frozen in my tracks as if the temperature had plunged to a hundred below. I stared at the huge hand which filled 80 percent of the stair width but, most of all, at the beckoning index finger. Strangely, I thought of Mr. Strowbridge who had becked me just like that almost half a century ago. I had not thought of him in more than thirty-five years yet now my mind was filled with him standing by his desk in room 214 of P.S. 31 which must have been fifty years old even then. The beat up wooden desk and the slate blackboards and the messy white chalk dust and chalk filled erasers and the student desks screwed to floor in neat rows and columns and penmanship examples on the walls filled my head. His beckoning was to summon ME and in his other hand was the dreaded short strap. A heavy leather strap which he had taken from the lower left hand drawer of that beat up wooden desk with the sole intention of vigorously applying it in full view of my classmates to my tender, little boy bottom with great force to teach me that it was wrong to hit a classmate.
It was a living, real nightmare at the time and even now just to remember it. Mr. Strowbridge was quick about it all. I stood in front of the desk and he was behind me in an instant. He yanked my elastic waist shorts down to the floor. Next he yanked my tightie-whites down and the class giggled at my little bare behind. "Grab the other side, boy." I, like everyone else in the class could not bend over the desk for it was too high so I had to jump up and grab the far edge. This let me bend at my waist while my lower parts hung over the edge putting my tender bottom in exactly the right spot for Mr. Strowbridge to strap it. He gave me four hard cuts which caused me to scream each time the vicious, evil and wicked strap seared my tail. It also made me cry even though I was already a big boy of nine (almost) in the third grade. I wished that I had could have been brave like Chuck who never cried when he was strapped. "Corner, boy." he ordered. I let myself slide back down to the floor and shuffled sideways and then forward and again sideways into the punishment corner. I did not want to let the girls see my penis. The girls always wanted to take the boys' pants down to see their penises.
I shook my head to clear my imagination. A hand like that could not exist. I must have been working too hard. Surely, this was just a figment of my imagination and not even an aberration. I went down the stairs, paid my fare, passed through the turnstile and headed for the platform to wait for my train. I saw the hand again and this time it was connected to a body. A huge body that somehow could stand in the subway. Actually it was not as large the first hand I saw but was attached to body that was double the high of a tall man. "Come here." he commanded as he sat down on the bench. I tried to turn and run but couldn't. Just like when I was a boy and I had to obey the big tall adults who were about to punish me.
He neither asked me nor told me what I did wrong. His big fingers easily opened my suit jacket and then my belt and my pants' button and zipper. With ease he shoved my pants to the floor and then, just like Mr. Strowbridge had, pushed my tightie-whites down also. There was not anyway I could avoid being hauled over his lap like I was a naughty boy and my father had decided to spank me. He spanked me long and hard. He spanked like I had been spanked as a little boy by my father and others. He spanked me long and hard so I knew that I had been well punished. He stood me up and pulled up my briefs and pants and closed them up. He vanished like he moved far away in a direction (dimension) that I could not imagine.
I sat for a second and then jumped up in pain. I leaned on a column in a daze with a very sore bottom. I was trying so hard to understand what had happed that I did not even react to the roar of the train as it rushed into the station just two steps away until the conductor yelled at me. "You don't like my train, buddy? You think the next one will be better. It will be here in just twenty-four minutes."
Still in my daze, I quickly boarded the train and stood all the way home.
Now, many years later, I still do not understand what happed that Sunday before dawn in the subway.
© Copyright A.I.L. March 7, 2010
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