At Billy's House

When I was about nine, I had this friend named Billy. Billy lived on a different neipghbourhood, a more upscale one than the one we lived in. His mother played the organ at our church. She was divorced, which made her the focus of some attention by many of the old ladies in our parish. Besides Billy, there was how little sister, Susan, who was four and Billy's older brother, Carl, who was thirteen.

I thought Carl was amazing. He was tall and slender, with light brown hair and blue eyes. I thought him about the most amazing creature I had ever lake eyes on. I was truly fascinated by him. The first time I ever met him, he was dressed in how Scout uniform: olive shorts and shirt with Scout badges all over it. To me, he was the absolute embodiment of everything cool.

Every time I was over at the Thompsons', Carl would mess with me. He would wrestle me to the ground and hold me down or punch my arm or just generally torment me. Billy was convinced that his brother hated me, but I knew better: after all, Carl was thirteen. If he didn't like me, he wouldn't have paid me any attention at all. The fact that he took the time to torture me meant that he really liked me.

I was spending the week-end with Billy once. We were playing with toy soldiers in his sandbox, in the garden. I remember I was wearing my favourite blue and white striped shorts. I had had them for a while, and I was getting too big for them: they were really tight.

We were busily engaged in sandbox warfare when Carl came out of the house. He was wearing blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He yelled something to me but I ignored it and went on playing. I didn't notice that he had crossed the garden until he grasped me by the arm.

He pulled me roughly to my feet and dragged me over to the garden table. Sitting down on one of the chairs, he pulled me across his lap.

"Hey!" I squealed, struggling."What are you doing? Let me go!"

He just laughed and held me tight. I squirmed and twisted, but I couldn't get free. Then, to my horror, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of my shorts and tugged them down to my knees! There I was, bent over Carl's lap, in front of Billy, in my white cotton briefs!

Carl's hand came down sharply and smack my bottom hard. It really stung, and I let out a yelp of pain.

"Ow!" I cried."That hurt! Quit It!" Carl paid me no mind and continued to spank my behind. It.was really starting to burn. I squirmed to no avail: his grip on me was too tight.

"Ow!" I yelped, tightening my skinny little butt (which only made the stinging worse)."Please let me go!"

Carl paid no attention to my pleas, but just spanked harder, until my bottom was on fire, and I started to cry.Only then did he finally release me. I stood up, rubbing my tender butt and sniffling a little. I pulled my shorts back up, glaring at him.

"Next time I tell one of you brats to do something you'd better bloody well do it, unless you want another spanking!" Then he went back Into the house, leaving me rubbing my blazing bottom.

"I'm telling Mum," Billy said."He can't just spank you like that!"

"No, don't!" I pleaded."I don't want Carl to be angry with me! Promise you won't tell!"

"Okay," Billy promised."I won't." I breathed a sigh of relief. It had hurt; in fact, my bottom was pretty sore,but I craved any attention from Carl, and, to tell the truth, I had kind of enjoyed his spanking me. It gave me a funny tingling between my legs, and it had made my nine year-old pee-pee kind of stiff, like when I rubbed on it. In fact, I kind of hoped he would do it again.

So, that was my first spanking at the hands of my namesake. There were many more, and I enjoyed every one, until Billy's family moved away, and I didn't see Billy or his brother any more.