Message-ID: <013325Z27071995@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking,alt.sex.watersports
From: an295111@anon.penet.fi (B. Watson)
X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.spanking,alt.sex.watersports
Organization: Anonymous forwarding service
Reply-To: an295111@anon.penet.fi
Date: Thu, 27 Jul 1995 01:30:57 UTC
Subject: STORY: A Matter Of Control (teens,m/m,cp,ws,humil,cons)
Lines: 923


#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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