The Boy Who Laughed

By Marc Murrey

Nicky is not quite a typical teenager.

Ignored by his single parent mother, he just manages to cope with his life. But something is missing and he looks for it in almost every man he sees.

Suddenly one of his fantasies comes true and his life changes - for ever, but in the process, he discovers there is more to both life and death than he had ever thought possible.

He finds someone who will discipline and control him in the strict way of the times, all of which contributes to moulding his character, and the reader journeys through his life, as Nicky learns to come to terms with himself, his own faults, and the major effect his first love has had on both him and others.

The companion novel 'John's Story' is also now available.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marc Murrey
• Release date: Dec 25, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458054494

Marc Murrey

Born in Edinburgh, Scotland of an American father and Scottish mother, Marc has written several short stories but only published his first full length novel in 2010.He lives with his partner and 2 dogs in an isolated cottage in the scenic serenity of the Scottish Borders.

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The Boy Who Laughed

By

Marc Murrey

Published by Marc Murrey at

Smashwords

Copyright © Marc Murrey 2010

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical people, events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

All characters in this work of fiction are aged over eighteen at the point in time from which the story is written.

This book is intended for ADULT READING ONLY. It contains a number of both sexually explicit and male/male discipline scenes, as well as graphic language, some of which may be considered offensive by some readers.

Please store your e-books where they cannot be accessed by minors.

Cover Photograph is by ‘Kekich’ and is in the public domain.

Marc Murrey asserts the moral right to be recognised as creator and owner of

‘The Boy Who Laughed’ and its characters.

Prologue

I attended the funeral of an old friend today.

He was the best friend I ever had, my mentor, guide and teacher. He was also the closest thing to a real father that I had ever had. Standing in the cemetery as we lowered his coffin, I was reminded of so many things that had happened in my life up till now, so much happiness, so many troubles and tribulations, and so much sadness. The happiness though, outweighed all else.

After the interment was completed and people had given us their condolences and good wishes the person I was with looked at me and without a word, left me on my own to walk a few yards to stand in front of another headstone.

The gold engraved letters had faded a little since I last saw it, but the spring sunshine still glinted from some of the corners, especially the inscription along the top of the stone, which seemed to look as clean and bright as the day it was first erected. My memory flashed back to the first time I saw it and a tear rolled down my cheek.

The inscription reads, ‘The Boy Who Laughed’.

His story needs to be told.

To tell his story, I have to tell you mine.

Chapter One

I remember clearly, it was Nineteen sixty-three, the beginning of the school’s summer break. I was staying on holiday in a Caravan Park near Crossburn Farm, at the very outskirts of Peebles, with the woman who brought me into this world, and a married couple who were her only friends. It was the first Saturday night of the school holidays, sunny and warm. I was bored, with just enough money to buy five cigarettes. Having smoked my last one a few hours before and with nothing else to do, I had decided to walk into the town to buy them. I left the caravan park just before the parish clock struck six o’clock, knowing the cafe in the High Street would be open till ten o’clock.

Whilst walking, I turned off the main road, having decided to explore the town a little bit. I’d been here before and knew I wouldn’t get lost. Peebles at that time was a sleepy little town, barely larger than a big village, forgotten by many people when the single track railway line had apparently lost popularity and been closed by the infamous Dr. Beeching. It comprised a mixture of large residential properties, small businesses and a couple of small council type housing estates. Away from the High Street, the main background sound was birdsong!

I had kept to the main roads the last time I had been out walking here, when I had been in Peebles on a school trip. Tonight, I had lots of time to waste, so there was no reason why I shouldn’t pass some of it, just seeing what existed where.

In those days the number of cars, vans and trucks using the roads was a fraction of what there are now. By this time on a Saturday evening the roads were almost bereft of vehicles. Young children played ball games, ‘kick the can’, or hide and seek in the middle of their street, with no fear of speeding vehicles, their shouts, laughter and excited yells, floating in the air.

From the time I was thirteen I dressed smartly, albeit as cheaply as I could, without even trying or thinking about it. This evening I was wearing dark blue cotton, hipster style (what’s called ‘low rise’ these days) jeans with slightly flared bottoms, dark blue nylon shirt, a wide, black plastic belt with a large decorative buckle and black leather ‘Chelsea’ boots, which were fashionable at the time. I almost always wore this style of boot because their inch and a half high ‘Cuban’ heels gave me more height. Standing at a little under five feet two inches tall in just my socks, I felt short for my age.

With my dark hair, pale complexion, clean cut bone structure and with not an ounce of fat anywhere on my body, I was ‘a pretty boy’ in modern terms. In those days, middle aged and older women used to croon over me, saying things like, aw, isn’t he sweet or, isn’t he a wee charmer, which used to embarrass me. Apart from my piano teacher’s son, who was about four years older than me, I had had little contact with older boys, in fact, I had very little social contact with anyone, except my middle aged piano teacher and her son.

I was painfully shy, fascinated by some of the older boys and young men I saw in my life. I frequently looked at older men with their children and thought, ‘I wish he was my Dad’, without actually knowing why, or what would happen, if they were. I was always too scared to actually speak to any of them though.

I attracted attention from girls too, but I felt nothing back. Girls, particularly teenage girls, were just noisy screaming animals as far as I was concerned and I tried, deliberately, to avoid them. I also attracted attention from boys my own age and slightly older, usually negative, who could be either verbally aggressive or who tried to bully me. I had no fear of the latter though, as I was more than capable of handling myself, my slight build hiding the fact that I was all muscle. I’d been in some fights when bullies had tried to push me around, and usually won. If I thought at the start that I couldn’t beat them, I would run.

I frequently also saw older youths and men stare at me, even when I was wearing my school uniform, at which time my hair would be slicked back with Brylcreem, rather than being natural, as it usually was when I changed out of my school clothes. I didn’t understand why they studied me as closely as they did, sometimes to the point of making me feel really uncomfortable, but it happened often. When this happened, I would check to make sure my flies were closed, that I didn’t have anything wrong with my clothes, and would blush if they caught my eye while they stared at me. But, I was a ‘loner’. I had no close, or even what could be classed as real, friends.

The one thing I did happily though, was to throw myself into physical exercises of all types. I loved doing gymnastics and swimming. I’d also taught myself how to do a couple of dives, just by watching other people doing it. I could lose all sense of time and place when either listening to or playing music. I would let my imagination run riot when looking at pictures, and could disappear into my own world of fantasy then. To look at an abstract Image while listening to music, could send me into a world where I was on my own, drifting alone in space and time, with neither existing in reality.

I didn’t miss the company of close friends, as I had never really had or wanted any. Although I don’t think I was necessarily unhappy, except in the winter when I was stuck indoors in my mother’s flat during the worst weather, even now as am almost-old man, I cannot look back and think of my home life from the age of seven as being anything other than unpleasant at best, to horrendous at worst.

I didn’t like walking past a public house or licensed restaurant, to the point, where I would cross the road and walk on the other side, if the route I was taking took me past one. I detested the smell that came out of these places, polluting the air with a nastiness that would start a dark fear to rise from deep inside me. Some people are scared of the dark, or of spiders. I was scared of public houses.

When it came to being around other people, I tried to stay in the background. I avoided crowds or kept to the outside edge of them. Even in school, I kept myself to myself, keeping to the edge of groups, lingering behind so I was the last to leave a class, and last to arrive at my next one. I didn’t hang around with any of the boys at school, speaking only to those I had to, in the course of my school work. I never volunteered answers when teachers asked a question. I would try to shrink into my seat, hoping not to have my name called and have to stand to answer.

I blamed that on the fact that my school uniform was always second hand. My jacket, usually one or two sizes too big and slightly worn at the elbows, was never the cleanest. At school, I had to wear knee length shorts until I began third year. They were either well oversized, or too tight. I washed my own shirts and dried them on a hanger in my room, so they were creased and crumpled looking. This was fine in the summer, but meant that in winter, as I had no heating in my bedroom, I would sometimes have to wear the same one all week, trying not to get it too dirty.

But when it came to other people, the only thing I did know for certain, was that I would get a twinge of excitement in my loins, whenever I saw a male of any age, wearing either a wide or thick leather belt. I would imagine them taking it off and using it on my backside. Not that I had lacked discipline at home. The woman who was my mother, had beaten me regularly and my Godfather, who I called Uncle, had taken over after my Dad had died, which happened when I had just turned seven. But it was at least three years since I had last seen him, much less been disciplined by him.

I avoided my mother, as she would happily hit me with the first thing she could pick up if I did anything to annoy her. I hated that woman. It was a deeply seated, cold hatred now. I had no idea why I hated her so much, but I detested everything about her. From her peroxide bleached hair, to her fat feet bulging out of her too-tight shoes. She seemed to hate me just as much, she did nothing for me. She didn’t make meals or wash my clothes. She had no interest in whether I was in the house or out somewhere. She had only brought me to Peebles with her, because where we lived, the neighbours would have reported her to the Police if she had left me alone for three weeks in the tenement flat where we lived. Dragged along, supposedly on holiday, by a woman I hated and her blowsy friends.

But overall, I suppose I was happy in myself as I knew nothing different. I went to school and did those lessons I liked, but skived off from some classes, or even whole days, if I didn’t want to do them, suffering the consequences from teachers or the headmaster stoically, when I had to. I had two jobs, a milk delivery round in the mornings that took me just over an hour to do, and a paper delivery round after school that was a little longer. I kept any money I found in the streets. I had even very occasionally taken money from the tills in the shops I worked out of, if their drawers were left open and unattended and I was desperately in need of money for food or clothes.

My only responsibility was to myself. I felt nothing in the way of affection or loyalty towards anyone other than myself, and I didn’t really like myself very much either. When I compared myself to other boys at the gym or the pool, I thought I was too skinny, the muscles in my chest and abdomen were too highly developed and showed clearly through my skin. I also thought I was too short, my hair was too dark and too straight, my skin was too pale, my fingers were too long and my genitals were too small.

But I existed. I could enjoy things, like a sunny day, or the snow on the ground. I had a little electrically operated piano with a plastic keyboard that I played when I felt like it, or I sneaked in to the Junior School’s hall to play the piano there some afternoons. I loved the taste of any fruit I tried, as well as the majority of vegetables that could be eaten raw. I hated sugary sweet things, so only drank milk, unsweetened fruit juice, or water.

The one thing I was proud of, was my teeth. When I compared mine in the mirror, with those of other boys, I knew mine were better. I never had toothache, they were white, despite smoking as many cigarettes as I could buy or steal each day. And I had never had a filling in my life.

I had just entered puberty, but knew nothing about my body or its functions. I had sprouted a couple of small tufts of very soft, dark pubic hair, but I’d had no sex education, was totally naive, so to me, I just got ‘a nice feeling’ when I saw certain things or people. I had not yet entered the world of wet dreams or self pleasuring, although I had been waking with an erection every morning for as long as I could remember, had I thought about it.

But I had just turned fourteen. I was shy, polite to the point of being standoffish to anyone I spoke to, with all sorts of unknown desires and inexplicable feelings going on inside my head and body. There was also one type of person which could instil in me a cold, petrifying fear. This was a fear that made me run. To run as fast and as far as I could. That type of person was any man, who smelled of cigarettes, beer and cheap whisky.

But here I was. Walking the two miles or so into the High Street, minding my own business as always, but taking in all of my surroundings. As I walked along this side road, I saw two boys, maybe two or three years older than me, standing close together talking, just inside the garden gate of a house on the other side of the street. Something about them and the situation attracted my attention, so I slowed to a dawdle, pretending to look at bushes and flowers in the gardens I was passing, until I was in front of them on the opposite side of the narrow residential street, where I stopped, half facing the garden I was in front of, straining my ears to hear what was being said about twenty feet away.

The two youths were standing close together, a few feet inside the open garden gate. Both looked as if they were aged around sixteen or a little older. They were of equal height, taller by a good four inches or so than my own slim, fourteen-year-old frame. One had brown, medium length hair, not curly, but with body, so it framed his head and face with its own shape. He was stocky in a muscular way, with a strong face which was tanned from the summer sun. He was wearing a scruffy, tightly fitting white t-shirt, tucked into his belt-less jeans, which fitted him like a second skin from the low waistband to his knees.

The second was of lighter build, not dissimilar to my own. He was slim, with dark blonde, lightly curled hair, which was longer than his friend’s but not overly so, again wearing a t-shirt, but his was spotlessly white, tucked into his, then quite new to Scotland, Levi’s 501 jeans, which were a looser fit than the other youth’s jeans. They were held in place above his hips with a shiny, brown leather belt. He had what we now call the ‘American college boy’ look about him, fresh faced, healthy but not too tanned, in an age when this was not thought of as an ‘image’.

As I got closer to them, I recognised this latter youth. He did odd jobs and worked around the caravan site and I believed he could be the son of its owners, although I had not yet learned his name. I had been secretly admiring him from afar, since I’d arrived late in the afternoon of the day before. I had watched him from the caravan window as he mowed the grass, then hidden amongst the trees at the riverside as he worked on something at the static caravans at the bottom end of the park. I had even gone for a shower in the toilet block this very morning, simply because I had seen him going in with cleaning equipment, then I’d secretly spied on him through a small tear in the nylon shower curtain. I didn’t know then what the attraction was that he held for me, but for whatever reason, I needed to look at and study him, whenever I saw him.

But back to this moment. The house the two lads were standing in front of, looked like a typical two storey council house with four, two or three bedroomed flats, two up, two down. One of the upstairs windows, to the left of the window above the house door, was open, with the figure of a well built man in his mid-forties standing just inside.

Just let me in, Dad? the brown haired boy shouted quietly, looking up to the window. He had a pleasant voice with a soft Borders accent, but there was a whine in it.

You know what you have to do, came the stern reply from a much older voice from the window. The man there was obviously the brown-haired boy’s father.

Just take it, said the fair haired youth to his friend, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder as he spoke.

I canna, the other one responded, shaking his head, before turning back to the house to shout again Please, Dad. Just let me in.

I’ve told you already, you know what you have to do if you want back in, came the response, this time, with more than a little impatience in the tone.

My curiosity was completely aroused now. I jumped to the hopeful conclusion that the brown haired lad had misbehaved in some way, had been locked out of his house and the only way he was getting back in, was to take a punishment. A punishment which in my young head, meant getting his bottom leathered with a belt.

The thought of that well formed backside, clad in tight denim, being belted, made my loins tingle and I started to get an erection, my penis getting uncomfortable in my own fairly tightly fitting jeans. I quickly turned around to adjust myself, so that my now solid erection was better concealed under my clothing, the head of my penis now uncomfortably pinned behind my belt buckle.

My conclusion was confirmed when I heard the fair-haired boy then say to the other, Look John, when I’ve had the belt from your Dad it’s not been all that bad. And it’s over in a minute or so. This was said in a sort of encouraging way, followed with, Your Dad can’t be that much worse on you.

I hate it, replied the other one, who I now knew was called John, as he continued with, He makes me take it bare arsed over the arm of the settee and it really hurts.

Yeah but it’s soon over with, replied his friend, and it’s better than not being able to go home. He put his right arm around John’s shoulders then and gave him a half hug.

I was really excited now, my pulse was racing. My heart was pounding so heavily in my chest I thought it would explode, when I then heard the fair haired one say, What if I take it first, show you it’s not that bad. It’s my fault anyway that your Dad’s angry with you.

Aw but Dave, he’s going to use his school belt this time an’ it really, really hurts. I have marks for days after, responded John, sounding like a whining child.

I was almost beside myself with sexual excitement now, and without realising it, had started to cross the road towards them. On top of that, I now knew the name of the boy with the dark blonde hair.

Fuck off! What the fuck are you looking at? said the one called John aggressively towards me, as I reached the pavement.

I’m sure I blushed, stumbling over my muttered reply of, Nothing, as I looked down to the ground.

Dave looked at me and told his friend, He’s OK. He’s from the caravan park. I felt as if I had just floated onto a cloud, as I realised that Dave, as I now knew him to be, had actually noticed me at the caravan park.

Hello, I said shyly to Dave not looking at him, I’m just going to the cafe for cigarettes.

He laughed. It had an infectious sound, making me want to laugh too. Then he said, They’re not good for you, you know.

I blushed but didn’t reply to him.

Plucking up all the courage I could muster, I looked at John and asked politely, excuse me, are you OK? then without waiting for a reply, I heard myself say, I’ve spent plenty of nights outside, so if I were you, I’d take up his offer, motioning my head towards Dave, not many friends would do that for you. Then I heard myself say, I’ve never had the belt except in school, which was partially true as I’d never been belted on the backside with a school belt, but it can’t be that bad, I finished lamely.

John didn’t reply, but if looks could have killed, I should have fallen stone dead there and then as he glared at me. As I was speaking, my eyes had strayed to his middle, where I saw an enormous, shapeless bulge in his jeans front, the biggest bulge I had ever seen in a pair of jeans. The cloth was stretched so tightly in a large mound over what was beneath, the cloth of his fly was pulled slightly back, to show the zip beneath.

Go on, said Dave, Just take it. I deserve it too, so I’ll take it first, show you it’s not that bad.

All of this had happened in less time that it takes to read this.

John turned to the house and looked up at the window, and shouted quietly, Can I come in, Dad?

You know what you have to do, son, came the reply, not as stern as the last time.

Can Dave get it first, he says he deserves it too? responded John despondently.

There was no reply, but a few seconds later there was the sound of the house door being unlocked, then it was pulled open inwards and the figure of John’s Dad could be seen turning to go back up the carpeted stairs.

Fuck off! John uttered quietly but aggressively in my direction, making me take a half step backwards.

Come on, said Dave, We’ll get this over with. As he put his left arm round John’s shoulder and guided him to the house door, he looked over his shoulder to say to me, Wait for me here, yes? then left me standing at the garden gate.

As they walked to the doorway, I had another of my ‘nice feelings’ as I watched Dave moving. There was a fold in the cloth at the bottom of the denim covering his backside, that was flicking from side to side as he walked.

As they went to go inside the house, I saw that John was wearing soft baseball boots, whereas Dave was wearing black leather shoes with long pointed toes, we called them winkle-pickers in those days. They just seemed to attract me to him even more. As they went inside, the door was pushed partially closed, then I saw them disappear as they went slowly up the stairs, Dave following John.

As they went inside, I looked up to the window. There was no sign of the father. Without thinking of what I was doing, I moved quickly through the open gate, almost running up the path to the house door where I paused, waiting for the two boys to go into the room at the top. I saw the nameplate on the door read ‘Fisher’. Then I went inside and sneaked up the carpeted stairs, making every effort to be silent. My heart was beginning to pound in my ears.

There was a long landing at the top of the stairs with doors at each end and several on the side wall facing me. The left hand door was three-quarters open and I could hear John’s father inside the room, saying roughly, I told you before what you would get if you ever stole money again, or if you stayed out all night without telling me. And you’ve done both.

There was a moment of silence, then I heard a voice mumbling something. I moved forward, craning my eyes to look through the crack at the hinge side of the door to see if I could see anything. With my eye almost touching the wood of the door, I could see the two youths standing almost side on to the doorway, facing John’s father, who was standing to their front, my left. My left hand was on the wall. I balanced myself, by just touching the door with my right.

You want it too? the father asked gruffly, obviously speaking to Dave, who responded quietly with, I don’t want it, pausing before adding, but I deserve it, so I’ll take it.

Dave then continued, John stayed at my house last night. We were watching films on TV and didn’t know how late it had got. It was almost two this morning when we saw the time. Dave didn’t sound now like the confident, cocky young man I had seen and heard around the caravan park.

The pair of you drunk, were you? barked John’s Dad, who I rightly assumed was Mr Fisher.

No, no, we didn’t have any beer or anything, replied John quickly, with Dave adding, You know I don’t drink alcohol. My parents wouldn’t let me drink anyway and they were home last night.

Well if you think you deserve a thrashing, I’ll give you one, but you’ll get the same as him, said John’s Dad gruffly, moving his head in the direction of his son. Then he asked the two of them in the same gruff tone, Who’s going first?

I will, responded Dave quietly.

John’s Dad gestured with his hand for his son to step back as he said a little more quietly, It’s been a while since I gave you a tanning, Dave.

Dave responded quietly and respectfully with, It was about two years ago, Uncle Andrew.

This was a revelation to me. John and Dave were cousins. Mr Fisher responded, Well, you’ll get the same as John for keeping him out all night. Drop your jeans and pants and get bent over the arm of the settee, as he pointed with his other hand to the settee beside the two boys. John moved back, shuffling slowly to move about four feet or so, till he was just beyond my view through the crack in the door.

Dave had moved a little closer to the settee, still facing John’s Dad, who had turned to pick something up from the chair beside him. I saw it was what I called a teacher’s belt. Light brown and with 3 tails, it looked thick, heavy and menacing. The sight of it made my already stiff penis get even harder. My heart was really pounding now, so loudly that I was sure they would hear it. I was almost holding my breath, trying to breathe as silently as possible.

Get them down, said John’s Dad firmly to Dave, who started to unbuckle his belt, then undid the buttons on his jeans. He turned to face the side of the settee, then as he pushed his jeans and underpants down to his hips I saw that he was wearing the new style of underwear, white nylon scants.

He bent partially over, exposing the upper half of his buttocks, his hands resting on the arm of the settee. Get right over it, put your middle over the arm, barked John’s Dad.

Dave obediently laid himself onto the arm, his almost square shaped buttocks raised up, his head and shoulders disappearing from my view. John’s Dad laid the strap down again as he moved forward to pull Dave’s jeans and scants down further, clear of his buttocks, then with a second movement, pushed the youth’s t-shirt up his back, clear of his backside.

The lower half of Dave’s buttocks were pale, contrasting against the nicely tanned skin above and below. He obviously wore Speedo’s often in the summer judging by the tan lines. As far as I could see, he had little or no body hair except for a faint line of blond hair down his bum crack.

As Mr Fisher moved back, he picked the strap up from the easy chair beside him, laid it across the middle of Dave’s buttocks and took aim. As it rested on Dave’s exposed rear end, Mr Fisher said firmly, You know the rules. You stay there and don’t move out of position. If you try to protect yourself, put your hands over your backside or stand up, you’ll get extra.

I heard Dave reply but he spoke too quietly for me to hear what he said.

Then I saw the man raise the strap to his shoulder and a half second later it came down with a loud ‘crack’ on Dave’s backside, instantly leaving a deep red imprint on the pale flesh. Dave’s body went rigid, his bottom cheeks clenched tight, but he didn’t make any sound.

My already rigid penis felt as if it was going to burst and I pressed my groin against the door frame. This gave me a really nice feeling in my balls, so I started thrusting my hips forward to the rhythm of the strap being raised and then brought down, pressing my rigid penis against the door frame.

Again the strap land, slightly lower, then again. On the fourth stroke it landed a little higher than the first. After the second and each successive ‘crack’ Dave had let out an increasingly louder, but short, NNnnn through his clenched teeth, his body going more and more rigid each time.

His entire backside from just above the crease at the top of his legs, to just below the start of the divison of his bottom cheeks, was now turning deep red.

The belt struck again, this time the end of it landing on the top of Dave’s right thigh. Aaahh came a gasp of pain from Dave, as even his shoulders arched up and his feet raised off the floor, so his body was almost balanced in a straight line over the settee arm.

Never having had a sexual climax before, I didn’t know what was happening to my cock and balls, but the tingling increased in intensity and I felt my cock throbbing painfully inside my tight jeans. My lower stomach area tingled and started to feel warm. My breath was coming in short gasps which I was trying really hard to keep silent.

It felt better than anything I had ever experienced and in my excitement, I pressed a little harder into the corner of the door. My right foot touched the bottom of it, making it move open a little further. The sound of my shoe touching the door sounded like a cannon exploding to me, as something else seemed to explode from my rigid penis, making the inside of my shorts and t-shirt feel warm and damp.

It felt like my heart had stopped as John came into view, even as I felt this pulsing in my groin again and again, feeling my belly getting wetter and wetter with something warm. I heard the belt land with a loud ‘crack’ on Dave’s backside for the sixth time as John glowered at me, Dave let out a more than muffled aaah this time.

I heard Mr Fisher say something, then suddenly he was there, in front of me in the open doorway. I wanted to run, but my legs turned to jelly and I started to shake.

Who are you? What are you doing there? he barked at me, as he grabbed my right arm near my shoulder. He dragged me into the room, asking, Well?

I was petrified. Mr Fisher was a big man. Broad, well built, not fat, but tall, heavy and muscular, with thick strong arms that made the material of his red checked shirt tighten over his biceps as he moved. Through his open necked shirt, I could see he was wearing a white t-shirt beneath. His loose fitting, dark brown corduroy trousers fitted fairly tightly around the mid-point of his broad, muscular thighs and they were held up with one of the broadest, thickest, black leather belts I had ever seen, with a large square, silver coloured buckle. His brown leather slippers looked out of place. Hiking or work boots would have been more appropriate.

All of my sexual excitement had now turned to worry, nervousness and fear and I was beginning to shake all over. I...I...I know Dave, I managed to stutter out.

Mr Fisher pushed me to stand at the back of the easy chair he had been standing in front of, ordering me to, Stay there. I’ll deal with you later.

I put my left hand onto the back of the chair to stop myself falling down and as I did so, it touched the tawse, now laid over the chairback, laying almost straight out. I looked up from the floor, to where my gaze had dropped and even in my petrified, shaking state, I let my fingers touch the thick leather. I saw there was a maker’s name stamped into the stiff leather just before the tails. ‘John J Dick’ I could read, even though it was upside down. Stamped in much larger letters near the hole in the handle end were the letters XXH. As I touched the strap, it slowly over balanced and fell to the floor at the back of the chair just as Mr Fisher reached to pick it up, hitting the linoleum covered floor with a surprisingly loud clatter.

Pick that up boy, he ordered me. My knees gave way as I bent to pick it up and I had to push myself with one hand and pull myself with my other, into a standing position, the strap now in my right hand. It was thick and surprisingly heavy, the leather was really stiff, with a deep sheen and very smooth, except for slight crease marks just above the name stamp, where it had obviously been partially folded at one time, so it remained virtually straight regardless of how it was held out. I passed it to Mr Fisher who took it roughly from my hand. What’s your name, he barked at me.

N ...N.... Nicky, sh...short for Dominic, I managed to stutter.

Well Nicky-short-for-Dominic, he said, Stay there and don’t move.

Despite my fear, I had thought to myself, I wish he was my Dad as soon as I had seen him. But now, I couldn’t have moved, even though I wanted to run. I was trembling all over, shaking uncontrollably, my knees felt like they would give way any time. I was almost wetting myself with fear.

I had a better view of Dave now. His backside was bright red, with darker red lines showing the outline of the strap’s tails where they had landed on his obviously firm buttocks. The mark at the top of his thigh was particularly red and I could see that this mark was raised up from the surrounding skin.

Mr Fisher had laid the strap across the centre of Dave’s backside again and as he raised it, Dave’s body tightened. The strap landed with an even louder ‘crack’ than before. Dave’s legs raised off the floor as he stretched himself into an almost straight line, gasping Aahhh even louder than before.

As his feet lowered, to touch the toes of his shoes on the floor, he tucked his head down, so that the top of his head was on the cushion of the settee and he moved both arms to clasp his hands around the back of his head.

The strap landed again, and again. These two strokes caused Dave to really yelp Aahh and after the second, I saw his shoulders begin to shake.

Another three strokes followed, each one causing Dave to gasp aaahhhh louder and louder. His backside was almost glowing it was that red, with some of the marks from the strap being darker red as they criss-crossed his bum cheeks.

Right, you can stand up, Mr Fisher ordered him. Dave visibly relaxed a little, but it was a few seconds before he eased himself off the settee arm into a standing position, his jeans falling to just below his knees, leaving his white scants stretched tightly into a thin line across the gap between his mid thighs. He turned a little and I saw his penis hanging limply, about four inches long and an inch thick, pale skinned against the darker skin of his balls, a neat growth of light blond hair surrounding it. As my gaze moved up his body, I saw he had tears on his face. His shoulders were shaking and I realised he was trying very hard not to cry, but was actually doing so, silently.

Get them up, was the next order from Mr Fisher, motioning to Dave’s jeans as he did so.

Dave pulled his scants up, wincing as they slid over his bottom and again as he let the elastic waist band tighten against the top half of his obviously sore rear end. Next came the jeans, which he slowly and carefully buttoned almost all the way up, leaving the top button and his belt undone.

Stand beside him, barked Mr Fisher, gesturing towards me. Dave moved slowly over to stand at my right, just in front of me. There was no sign of the confident swagger I had seen him use when moving around the caravan park. I had moved a little so that I could lean on the chair back with both hands and Dave’s back ended up being level with the chair back.

You. Over here, Mr Fisher than said sternly to his son.

As John moved slowly to stand in front of his father my concentration wandered to Dave. Totally out of control now, I reached out to touch him, putting my hand on his low back with a little bit of pressure, then slid my hand down to the top of his jeans. My fingers stroked over the smooth leather of his belt, then I ran my hand down over the rounded buttock cheek. I could feel the heat from his reddened backside even through the two layers of thick denim where the back pocket was.

Dave had flinched a little when I first touched him, then again as my hand strayed onto his butt, but as I gently stroked him, moving my hand slowly in a circle over his hot backside, he started to relax and moved slightly closer to me. I got an erection again.

Bare it and get over the arm, I heard Mr Fisher order John, which drew my attention back to the scene in front of me. I kept my hand petting Dave’s backside, moving even closer to him so that Mr Fisher wouldn’t see me doing this.

Aww Dad, please? whined John.

Get them down, his father barked.

Please Dad? Not the strap? John whined again

Bare it! Now! his father ordered him.

As soon as his father said ‘Now’ John shook, then undid his jeans slowly, he couldn’t have done it any slower if he had tried, then pushed them halfway down his thighs. Being a much tighter fit than Dave’s and with no belt to weigh them down they happily stayed where he left them.

And the pants, his father ordered him.

He slowly pushed his white ‘Y Front’ underpants down to pile up on top of the crumpled denim.

I’m sure my eyes must have popped out like organ stops when I saw what was now exposed. John’s penis was easily seven inches long, at least two inches thick, and was flopping around freely now it was out of the restricting cloth of his underpants. It didn’t hang straight down though, as John’s balls were also large, forcing it to lay at almost at forty-five degrees out from his legs.

I had seen large cocks before on some of the older boys in the school changing rooms, but this was the biggest penis I had ever seen. The skin on it was much darker than the surrounding area of his groin and top of his leg. His dark brown pubic hair grew strongly above and around it. The fronts of his thighs also had a visible growth of brown hair on them.

Over, barked Mr Fisher and John turned slowly to lay himself over the arm of the settee. I saw that even his buttocks had a light covering of dark hair on them. John’s backside was broader, rounder and fuller than Dave’s, darker skinned too, although still lighter than the tops of his thighs, which had been tanned by the summer sun.

Please Dad? he whined again as he settled, I won’t do it again, he finished, as Mr Fisher pushed the back of John’s t-shirt clear of the boy’s rear end to reveal the well tanned skin of his strong, muscular back.

You know the rules. Don’t move or you get extra, Mr Fisher said menacingly to his son.

With no warning, he raised the strap and brought it down hard on John’s buttocks, making a ‘crack’ sound which seemed louder than any so far.

John yelled AAAAAhhhhhh followed by, Please. Dad. No. Please don’t, and the strap landed again, making John yell AAAAAhhh even louder and longer.

Please? Dad! No. Please Don’t? No. Please don’t? begged John, his voice rising in pitch as he yelled. The strap landed again with a loud crack and John’s body went rigid, his right leg folding up from the knee to rest his foot almost on the back of his thigh.

Stop your yelling and take it like Dave did, Mr Fisher barked at him, as he landed the strap across the lower part of John’s bottom.

The AAAaahhh was almost a scream this time and John began crying like a little boy. With each of the next half dozen or so strokes, his body twisted from side to side, with one or other, or sometimes both feet rising as he bent his legs up off the floor, as if to try and protect his backside, but he kept his hands under his face, where it was pressed into the cushioned seat of the settee.

The skin on his buttocks was turning a darker red than Dave’s had done, the dark red marks of the outline of the strap’s tails being even more visible. A couple of strokes where the ends of the tails had landed, had three, almost square, small purple marks, showing that the strap had landed with some force indeed. It was obvious to me that Mr Fisher was laying it on much harder on his son than he had on Dave.

He seemed to lay on stroke after stroke, John was sobbing and crying now, gasping and yelling each time the strap landed. The final stroke landed across the top of the boy’s thighs well below his buttocks, making him really yell, almost scream, with pain.

You can stand up now, said Mr Fisher firmly to his son.

John lay there sobbing and crying for almost a minute, before struggling to his feet, turning to face his Dad when he had done so. His hair was dishevelled, has face was covered in tears, snot was dripping from his nose, as he cried uncontrollably, his whole body shaking as it racked with sobs.

My penis had been going from hard to soft to hard again all the time I had been standing there, despite my nervousness and fear, but now all I felt was sympathy and concern for the youth and it softened.

John wiped the back of his hand across the end of his nose, then moved to pull his jeans up and his Dad barked, Leave them there.

Mr Fisher was still holding the strap in his right hand. He continued, That was for staying out without permission. You had me worried sick. It shows you still haven’t learned to act responsibly. Now, kneel on the settee and bend over the arm.

John looked shocked at this, his sobs stopping momentarily, but he obediently shuffled round to the front of the settee, manoeuvred himself awkwardly onto it and into a kneeling position. His father picked up the cushion from the chair next to him and laid it on top of the settee arm, then took another from the settee and laid it on top.

Please Dad, please don’t. I’ll never take money again, pleaded John, still crying.

Bend over the arm, son. You’ve promised me before you wouldn’t steal again, and I promised you what I would do if you did, was all his father said then, sounding really stern. He moved to stand at the end of the settee about two feet or so away from where John’s head was almost touching the floor now and raised the strap.

This is for stealing a pound out of my wallet last night, said his Dad.

He brought the strap down and John almost screamed. Again and again the strap landed with a snapping crack sound on John’s bare skin, and each time John yelled, his shouts of pain were getting louder with each stroke. But he lay there, his hands on the floor beside his head, his body twisting, arching and bucking each time the strap landed. After about a dozen or so strokes, Mr Fisher said, That’s it. What have you got to say for yourself?

John was sobbing and hiccupping, unable to raise himself for a good two minutes. Then, when he did pull himself up into a partially squatting position on the settee, he was crying, sobbing, his body shaking, snot bubbling in a white froth from his nostrils. His enormous penis was bouncing about as his body shook, which looked a bit comical to me, but I was too scared and felt too sorry for the youth, to even think about giggling at it.

I’m s..... sorry Dad. I’m sorry I stole. I won’t do it again. I..I... I’m s...s...sorry I stayed out without permission. I w...w...won’t do it again. I’m really sorry Dad, John gulped and hiccupped his response.

Mr Fisher lightly threw the strap onto the chair as he stepped forward. He pulled his sobbing son against his chest, giving him a firm hug. I’m sorry you made me do that, but I promised you last time what you’d get, he said gently to the lad. Then I was astounded by what he said next, I love you son.

He pulled his son into him and hugged him again. John’s crying didn’t ease any, but he mumbled between sobs, I love you too Dad.

Mr Fisher moved away slightly and said gently, Pull your jeans up, son. John took a minute or two to get off the settee and get his underpants and jeans pulled up, buttoning the waistband but leaving the zip undone.

As he was doing this, he turned slightly and I could see that the strap had landed well down the backs of his thighs, almost to his knees. Once he was dressed, still sobbing quietly, Mr Fisher pulled the boy to him and hugged him again as he said, I love you son, again.

John sort of hiccupped a mumbled reply, which again sounded like, I love you too, Dad.

Go over beside Dave, said Mr Fisher, while I handle this boy. He gave John a gentle push on his low back to usher him towards where Dave and I were standing.

Now you! You have some explaining to do, said Mr Fisher very sternly to me, as he turned to glare at me. I started to shake again. Much as the idea of getting my backside leathered had appealed to me in the past, I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle anything close to what these two older youths had just received.

I wished now I hadn’t let my curiosity take control of my actions.

Mr Fisher moved towards me, grabbed my shoulder and pulled me forward, then manoeuvred me almost roughly, into a position where I was standing beside the arm of the settee facing him.

Now then, tell me who you are, he growled at me.

I was really shaking again now and all I could do was stutter and stumble my words out. I... I... I’m h.. h.. here a.. at the c.. c.. carav.. van p.. p..park, I said stuttered hesitatingly. I w..was g..g..going into the t..t..town when I saw Dave outside. I’ve s..seen him on the park. I c..crossed over to t..talk to him.

I’d started to calm down a tiny bit as I explained myself but was still trembling uncontrollably. I was speaking to him and John just before they came upstairs, I continued, my voice very low as I tried really hard to control my stutter. I was still looking at the floor, and was now feeling really foolish. I wondered how I’d had the courage to come into the house. I’d never done anything like that before in my life.

And then? he asked.

I hesitated before answering, not quite knowing what to tell him, then heard myself say, Dave said to wait for him outside, but I sort of .... sort of... wanted to see... what you did to them, and I glanced at Dave and John.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by John’s uneven breathing and slightly quieter sobs.

Do you make a habit of going into other people’s houses? People you don’t know? he asked me sternly.

No, no, I exclaimed, I really don’t know why I did it, I replied.

Well Nicky-short-for-Dominic, Mr Fisher said, How old are you?

I was Fourteen last Tuesday, I mumbled, then added, Mr Fisher.

I’ll give you two options then, he said, then paused and said, One, I call the Police and report you for unlawful entry.

The thought of being dragged to the Police station horrified me. If there was one thing I was petrified of, it was of being sent to Borstal. So I pleaded, Please. Please, not the Police.

Well option two, is I take my belt off and use it on your backside. Give you a leathering, similar to what those two have had, Mr Fisher said firmly.

I glanced up from gazing at the floor, to look at the thick, wide leather belt around his waist and despite still being terrified, the thought of this big man using it on my backside, still gave me a tingle in my loins. After what seemed like an age, he barked, Well? Which is it to be?

Now I have to say here, this was by no means an unusual pair of options to have been given. If anything, they were what I expected under the circumstances. In nineteen sixty-three, we were still in an age when the local ‘Bobbie’ would give you a clip round the ear if he caught you doing something wrong, or would take you home and watch, while your Dad gave you a sound leathering for misbehaving, or in some cases, would do it himself if the parents requested it. It was not only quite permissible, but was expected, that the fathers of your friends would give you the same leathering they would give their own children, if you misbehaved while in their homes.

But I still hesitated, before replying quietly, I...I’ll t...t...take the belt.

Bare your backside then laddie, then get over the arm of that settee, Mr Fisher told me, as he started to unbuckle his belt.

I hesitated a moment, watching him first unbuckle his belt then start to slide it through the loops of his trousers. Get them down, laddie, or I call the police now, Mr Fisher barked at me.

I started to unbuckle my own belt, suddenly remembering that I was wearing a pair of torn sports shorts under my jeans, and felt a little embarrassed. As soon as I undid the top button, my jeans, being hipsters and helped in no small measure by the weight of my plastic belt and its large metal buckle, pulled the zip fully open and they started to slide down my legs.

As I was undoing the top button I became aware that the centre of the waistband was wet, that the top of my shorts was wet and sticky, as was the skin on my lower belly. I had no idea what had caused this but felt even more embarrassed than I already was. I let go of the waistband and my jeans piled up in a heap at my ankles. Fortunately, my shirt was long enough to cover most of my embarrassment.

And the pants, ordered Mr Fisher.

He’d had his belt in both hands and had now rolled the buckle end around his right hand, leaving almost two feet of the broad, thick, heavy leather as a strap, the tail end of which was in his left hand. I saw that the holes for the buckle pin were quite large and extended almost to the end of the belt.

I pushed my shorts downwards and as soon as they were clear of my hips they slid to my knees. I had always been painfully embarrassed if I had to expose my body to anyone. I felt extremely self conscious now, being half naked in front of both Mr Fisher and his son, but for some reason, even more so, in front of Dave. I quickly glanced sideways at the two youths to see that Dave had one arm around John and was comforting him. John, still snuffling, had stopped sobbing and had wiped his nose, but his face was still wet from his tears.

I saw that Dave still had the top button of his jeans and his belt undone. That got my sexual excitement started and I felt a little tingle in my balls again. That, and the sight of the enormous bulge in John’s jeans. Although it made me feel guilty at the thought, I knew that I wanted to touch that huge bulge.

Over the settee, ordered Mr Fisher, snapping me back to reality.

I turned, stumbling a little, as I tried to move a little closer to the arm and had to reach down to lean on the arm to steady myself. I shuffled closer to the arm of the settee and laid myself over it as I had seen the two older boys do, wriggling a little as Mr Fisher guided my rump into the position he wanted it to be in. My backside suddenly felt cold and very exposed, raised as it was over the arm of the couch and I felt a chilly draught of air blow across it.

You definitely want the belt and not the Police? he asked me gruffly.

I uttered a mumbled, Yes, sir.

I felt him lay the strap end of the belt across my buttocks, the tip curling completely around my right side until it must have touched the cloth of the settee. I felt it being drawn back across my skin, until it rested across the middle of my buttocks, the end must have been just past the centre of my right one.

Don’t move till I tell you, don’t try and protect yourself, or you’ll get extra, I heard him order me firmly. I had sort of expected that, as he had told Dave and John the same.

Then I felt the belt being withdrawn fully from across by buttocks and a fraction of a second later I felt it land. I was ready to gasp in pain but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had expected and I only flinched a little with the surprise. The next stroke was harder and stung a lot, but I clenched my teeth and was determined not to cry out. The third stroke was harder again which actually did hurt quite a lot, making me clench my buttock cheeks and tense my legs.

Then the strokes started coming so quickly I lost count and my backside began to feel as if it was on fire. The real pain had started around the middle of the two cheeks and had spread out, until I was stinging from the base of my spine to the tops of my legs. I was beginning to yelp involuntarily through my teeth.

There was a slight pause, then the next stroke came which really hurt and I heard this strange whining sound as another stroke landed. I suddenly realised the whining was coming from me, making a sort of NNNNnnnnnn type sound through my