Leaking Joey

I stood, groaned, and stretched my back for a minute before bending down to pick up the trash bags. This was really not the way I wanted to be spending my weekends and time after school, but I could finally see I’d made some real progress and would be ready to open the store soon.

It was a Monday afternoon, and I’d almost finished cleaning the trash out of the back room. It had a huge amount of space— more than I could conceive of needing— but it’s better to have too much, than not enough. What had been a real shock was the amount of usable material I’d found in the back room, including some display racks that were going to save me more than a couple of dollars.

I’d managed a great deal on the lease because the owner had recently inherited the property and didn’t want to put a lot of money into it. My real problem had been affording a place for a couple of months while I got ready to open. I was already having to pay some of my younger friends to work Comics and Stuff and let the customers there know about the new owner and the upcoming move. By agreeing to handle a lot of the ‘minor’ clean up work and letting a few things slide, I’d basically received free rent until the end of June, by which time I would be open. Considering that the location I’d found was within a six block radius of four different schools, including both the university and high school, it was a sweetheart deal.

Which didn’t make my back feel any better.

At least the worst of it was behind me, I thought, as I started towards the back door. The previous tenant had let the alley turn into a pigsty. He, whoever it had been, hadn’t even paid for dumpster rental. While the backroom was trashy, I didn’t think he’d thrown it all back there, but I never figured out how he’d dealt with it. However, repairing that oversight had been nearly the first thing I’d done.

There were four stores in my little block of shops. At each end was room for a dumpster to sit. Behind the stores was a not especially big alley that would have faced on the parking lot of a sports bar, if they’d not put a wooden fence around it. What that left us with was a six foot wide walkway, the length of our building, that was fairly screened from passing traffic by the dumpsters, and had become a popular place to smoke, drink beer, and get rid of it. The place was full of cigarette butts, beer cans and bottles (few of which had survived being emptied), and it reeked. As much as I’d wanted to put it off, I’d finally gotten around to cleaning it the past Saturday. It had taken nearly six hours, a gallon of bleach, and a can of Lysol, but all the trash was gone and it smelled-- well, not exactly pleasant yet, but not nearly as offensive. I’d even had the dumpster moved a bit, paid to install a large (and shielded) light back there, and had persuaded the police to drive by and look a couple of times each nightshift. So as I pushed through the back door, toting two bags of trash towards the dumpster, I hope you can understand that I was slightly more than irate to spy a little urchin relieving himself on the alley wall.

He tried to get away, but he was obviously shocked at my coming through the door. I was probably just as shocked as he was, but I like to think I had a couple of advantages. First, since I was coming to the end of my third year of teaching, I was somewhat accustomed to coming across kids doing unusual things in unusual places. Probably more telling was the fact that I wasn’t trying to cut off and tuck in while in mid-stream, while also holding up my pants. That would seem to make running somewhat difficult.

The boy hadn’t gone two steps before I had him by the back of the neck. It wasn’t a hard grip, but it was firm enough that his shoulders came up and his head tucked down. I have to admit that the boy had some brass ones, though. Even while he still had one hand down his pants, he let go of his jeans and started swatting at me. "Let go!" he complained at my grip, but I wasn’t budging. I didn’t mind the swatting though, since it allowed his jeans to slide down, revealing that a snug pair of Jockeys were hugging a very round little rear end.

"I’ll let go when the police get here, you little hood," I assured him in what was probably not my normal warm and friendly manner, and only slightly distracted by his exposure.

That got his attention. "You can’t call the cops. I didn’t do nuthin’."

"Really, because it looks to me like they’ll have you for public indecency and vandalism."

"What’s those?" he asked belligerently, and I wasn’t in the mood to correct his grammar.

After he’d given up trying to swat my hand away (and swatting his own neck nearly as often as my hand), he gave up and finished fastening his pants. I still had a chore to finish. With one hand on his neck, we had to make two trips to the dumpster, but I got the trash put away, then guided him inside the building, shoving the door closed behind us, and guided him to the bathroom.

"In case no one’s ever taught you, that’s called a toilet. If you need to urinate, just stand there…"

"I know how to use it!" he snapped. Mister Personality was not trying to win friends, I can tell you that much. Though, as I calmed down from my initial urge to squash the little rug rat, I had to admit I’d not been very charming myself. Just so you know how pissed off I truly was, I’d not even realized how cute he was until right then.

The boy lifted his shirt, then looked at me. "I can’t go with you watching!"

As I turned my back, I had to admit that cute can be relative.

He really was cute though. The first thing I noticed was medium-dark brown hair with just a hint of red to it, that looked like it was probably supposed to be parted on the side, but mostly was hanging down into his face. It was a nice face though, with full cheeks; full, red lips; a round chin; and a nose that was just slightly pugged. He wasn’t real big, and I guessed he was probably about ten, judging by his height, build, and the fact that I’d seen enough to tell his little sac was still tight up against his legs. Even though his bottom had been nice and round, the boy had definite hips and his belly was flat and firm. If I’d not been so irate with him, I might have been drooling.

My back was turned, but the door was still open, so I explained, even as I listened to him filling the bowl. "Indecency means exposing yourself outside, like mooning someone or peeing on a wall. Vandalism is messing up something that’s not yours, like breaking it, spray painting it, or just peeing on it. You were doing both those things."

The stream was dying off, and he started to protest, but I cut him off.

"I wouldn’t worry about it too much, though. At your age, the police will probably just give you a couple of tickets. I doubt it’ll cost your parents more than a few hundred dollars."

That finally seemed to make an impression on him. "You can’t do that. My mom’ll kill me."

"I’m sure that’ll make things cleaner," I mumbled to myself.

"What she needs to do," I went on, raising my voice, "better yet, what your dad needs to do, is blister your butt."

The kid had flushed and walked out by the time I finished that, and was staring at me now. "I don’t got a dad."

I hate when kids say something like that to me. Even though Patrick had finally shown up when I was about this kid’s age, I remembered how that felt, and those words always evoked my sympathy, even when sympathy was the last thing I wanted to feel.

"That’s a real shame. Every boy needs a dad." I paused for a second, then hardened my heart and added, "And in a case like this, he needs a dad to pull his pants and shorts down and wear his butt out."

The kid blushed and looked away, knowing he was on the defensive, but not ready to give up. If he’d been older, he might have questioned the basic facts, like what the cops would really do or if they’d do anything, since it was only my word against his (and this was long before you could call CSI to do DNA testing). Not being sophisticated enough to think of those things, he tried the only other thing he could think of. Suddenly he was all sweetness, light, and apology.

"I’m really sorry, mister. I’ll never do it again. It’s just me and my mom, and she doesn’t make a bunch of money. She couldn’t afford to pay those tickets. Do you have to call the cops?"

"I don’t have to…. What’s your name, anyway?"

You could tell he thought about not answering. A quick look of resistance flashed through his good boy act, but he quickly repressed it and answered, "Joey."

"It’s like this, Joey. I don’t have to call the cops, but I worked hard to get that alley cleaned up. I’m going to bet this isn’t the first time you did this, but I want to make sure it’s the last."

"But I didn’t even know you had a store here."

"That shouldn’t matter, kiddo. You knew you shouldn’t be standing around outside, pissing on buildings; didn’t you?"

It was reluctant, but he was honest enough to admit it, which raised him a notch or two in my estimation.

"I might not have to call the cops, but I’m going to at least call your mom." I overrode his protest before he could get anything but a but from his lips. "If I can do anything about it, you’re not getting away with this, scott free. I’m sorry you don’t have a father to give you the spanking you need, but.…"

"You could do it," he mumbled.

What a sweet boy: were you just playing my song?

"Joey, I think a good, long, hard spanking," the poor kid winced with each word, like I was already smacking him, "is exactly what you need, but I don’t know if I’m the right person to be giving it to you. For you to learn a lesson from a spanking…"

"I’m really sorry, but please don’t tell my mom."

I had to pause and think about this. Did I really scare the kid that badly? The truth is, that while what he had done was illegal and might be considered vandalism, I had serious doubts that the police would do anything but take him home to his mom, since he was so young. I wanted to spank the kid, but for some reason, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I looked around and saw a box with some miscellaneous crap in it. I grabbed Joey under his arms, swung him around to sit on the box, then knelt down in front of him, so he was slightly above me.

"For a spanking to really be effective," I picked up again, "it’s best if it comes from someone that you know and trust. Spankings hurt, and they only teach you a lesson if you know you deserve them…."

"I do. I know I shouldn’t…."

"Shhhh." I waited until he died down, then went on. "…and if it comes from someone you trust to punish you because you deserve it, not because they’re mad at you. I AM mad at you, Joey; but I don’t just want to hurt you."

I couldn’t believe I was doing this, but.… "If you don’t want me to call your mom, do you have an uncle or someone we could call?"

He shook his head, looking more depressed by the minute. I reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

"Joey, if I spank you, it’s not going to be fun or easy, and I’m not going to stop until I’m sure you’ve learned a lesson, and you’re sure you’ve paid for messing up. Understand that?"

He nodded.

"But, if you take your spanking, then I think we can keep this our little secret. We won’t have to tell anyone else, including your mom. Is that what you want to do?"

Now that I’d agreed to it, I could see worry, doubts, and second thoughts flashing behind his eyes, but he finally nodded.

"Have you ever had a spanking before?"

He shook his head, then looked back at me. "A couple, I guess."

"You guess?" If you don’t know kid, who would?

"My mom spanked me a few times when I was little, and one of her boy friends spanked me once."

"Lately?"

"No, I was like seven, I think."

"What’d he use?"

"His hand."

"Okay, I think we can do this, then. Get your shoes off, then hop up."

The boy looked down, toed the shoes off, then slowly climbed to his feet. I gestured for him to step towards me a bit, then took him by the hips and turned him to face straight towards me.

"Lift your t-shirt up." He did, not seeming very happy to be exposing himself again. "All the way up," I urged him after a few second, "up under your arms."

I watched the shirt slowly climb his belly. You couldn’t quite count his ribs, but he was lean enough that there was no problem finding the curve between them and his belly, and the crease running from his chest past his little outtie was very distinct. He certainly wasn’t ‘ripped’, but he must have been very active.

As soon as I was happy with his shirt, I reached forward to undo his fly. He jerked away, so I calmly took him by the hips and pulled him back to where he’d been. When I started to unzip the jeans this time, he stood there, but I could feel him lightly trembling.

I spread his jeans and slid them down his coltish legs, not doing it quickly, but trying not to drag it out, either. As soon as they were around his ankles, I told him to lift a foot. When he hesitated, protesting that I didn’t need to take them off, I gave him a reasonably firm swat on the upper thigh. "Lift it." He did and we took the jeans off.

His jockeys weren’t loose or snowy white, but they weren’t grey and ripped either. They hugged him just tightly enough to accent his boyish slimness. I tried to treat them the same as I had his jeans, telling myself this was business, and that I wasn’t unwrapping Christmas presents. I even tried to watch his legs as I slid the white cotton down them. It worked a bit, but didn’t prevent me from seeing his hands drop down to cover himself. I had to smile at that, even as I was having him step out of the shorts.

"It’s a little late to be getting shy, don’t you think?" I asked, as I reached up and lightly patted his hands. "Get those back up where I told you."

I looked up into his face and saw him blush, but he began to move his hands. I really couldn’t understand why he was having that sudden reaction, until I saw that Little Joey was standing up and looking around. I gave it a little thump with one finger. "Is that why you were covering up?"

He nodded miserably.

"Better get used to it, kiddo. By the time you’re about 13, that thing will be popping up all the time, and usually exactly when you don’t want it to. That’s just part of being a boy. Anyway," I added after a brief pause, "I think I’d be more worried about the other end if I were you. Hands up."

His hands came up like I was robbing him, and I grabbed the bottom hem of the shirt, pulling it over off and mussing his thick hair. I turned a bit to drop the shirt behind me, smoothing his hair down with the other. Joey looked a bit sick, but smiled weakly as I slicked his hair back. That’s when I realized I didn’t have a chair back here.

I thought for a minute about where my chairs were right now, but I was pretty sure that they all had crud stacked in them. After a moment’s thought, I propped my left leg up on the same box where Joey had been sitting, then turned him away from me, grabbed him under the arms, and lifted him to lie across my upraised leg, being very careful that his weight was on his thighs, not his belly. I’m sure it wasn’t a real comfortable position, but I knew he could breathe, and it wasn’t like he was going to be there for hours, or that there wouldn’t be other things quickly making him much more uncomfortable.

I started to reach around his waist to help keep him in place, but then I thought about that stiff little penis, and wrapped my arm a bit higher; above my leg, rather than below it. Sure I had a good grip, I went to work.

His little rear was nice and what there was of it was full, but he didn’t have a lot of hips; so, even though it was lightly dimpled, I didn’t have a lot of territory to work with. Instead, I mostly used my fingertips, getting maximum sting, but not covering a lot of area with each smack, so I could draw it out a little longer.

The boy definitely didn’t have much experience with a real spanking and was yelping and wriggling hard from almost the first pop. I had a good grip on him though, so I had no trouble with that. Actually, I found this position a delight. It allowed him to squirm and kick and thrash even more than normal, yet he had even less leverage, so I had all the delight and entertainment with none of the usual struggle to hold him in place.

Even though he was practically a stranger to spankings, I didn’t really take it easy on him, slowly and methodically painting that whole cute little bottom a deep red. The only way I let him off easy was by skipping the legs. Too many boys run around their homes in nothing but their undies, even in front of their moms. If he wanted to keep this a secret, I thought I shouldn’t leave evidence just glaring. Other than that one omission, I made sure he enjoyed a very thorough display of the art. Judging by the way he was screeching, howling, and begging me to stop, I’m not sure he appreciated me for it, though.

When he started to go limp, I lined up on the sit spots, ready to bring things to an end in my traditional manner, then stopped myself and helped him to his feet. His first instinct was to rub, but I grabbed his hands before he could get them behind him.

"Not yet, my boy. You wanted me to act like your father for this. I took it easy on you"— his red, wet eyes went wide at that shocking claim— "…yes, I did. I took it easy on you because you’ve not really ever been spanked before, or not for a long time. However, I thought we should finish this in the traditional father/son way."

He looked curious for just a second, until I let loose of his hands and started undoing my belt. If he’d never been whipped with a belt before, he must have heard stories from his friends, because he nearly went hysterical as the belt slipped out of its loops. I’d just planned to give him two swats to finish it up, but his legs nearly collapsed on him; he was shaking, and I just didn’t have the heart to do it. It would have been cute, I’m sure, to give him even a quick strap dance, but the boy was in terror. I dropped the belt on his clothes.

"All right, then, Joey. I guess you’ve had enough. Go ahead and rub."

He’d not exactly been standing still before that, but as soon as I’d given him permission, he put on a full-scale fire dance, and was moving and leaping around like a prima ballerina. The only sad part was he’d lost his little stiffy during the spanking. Watching that bob around would have made it a four-star show.

When he’d settled down, I handed him his jeans.

"I need my shorts first."

"No, you don’t. Now put those on unless you want the belt after all."

He was hardly enthusiastic, but he pulled his jeans on, wincing as the denim brushed against his bottom. Then he pulled his shoes on. I stepped into the bathroom, selected some Pine Sol and poured a bit into a small bucket. Then I added warm water and tossed in a sponge that looked about ready for the dumpster.

"Now you can go wash your piss off the wall. If you do a good job, you can get dressed and go. If you don’t…." I let the thought die away, but I doubt he missed the significant look I sent at the belt.

I went back to what I’d been doing for about ten minutes, then stepped out back to see how Joey was doing. Unless he’d been chugalugging all day, I was pretty sure he’d not wet nearly as much as he’d washed, so I told him to pour out the water and come back inside.

As soon as I had the back door shut, he shucked out of shoes and pants and went for his undies, but I stopped him. He looked back when I called his name. I’d sat on the box where he’d sat earlier, and now I held up a tube of lotion.

"Your bottom still sore?"

"Yeah."

"If you’ve hardly ever been spanked, I guess you’ve never tried rubbing lotion on a sore rear; have you?"

He shook his head.

"It helps a lot. Want to try?"

He nodded and walked over to me. I got a big squirt and rubbed my palms together to warm it up, then reached around and took one of his little cheeks in each of my palms. He sighed and leaned against me, relaxing into the hug, as I gently massaged his tender bottom. He didn’t move away when I finished, so I squirted a bit more in my hands for a second coat. By the end of that one, his skin was a little greasy, so I figured he’d had enough, and gave him a pat. He was nearly purring as he straightened up.

I don’t think he noticed mine, but when he stood up, we both had erections. He saw me glance at his and blushed a bit, but we didn’t say anything. We just stood there for a minute, strangely comfortable with the weird situation, until I realized I was on a schedule.

"Better get dressed and get out of here, Joey. I’ve got work to do."

As he pulled on his briefs, I slid my belt back on. As he was dressing, he turned to me and asked what kind of store it was going to be. He seemed interested when I told him.



I’d like to tell you that Joey was a frequent customer and that he and I not only became good friends, but I was a real mentor to him, and even made time to coach his soccer team the next spring. I’d like to, but that’s not what happened. I never saw Joey again after that day, though there was an odd occurrence a few weeks after I opened.

It was a Saturday and I was doing some general straightening, when I heard the front door open. I stepped around a display and saw a man and boy walking in.

"Hi. How are you today?" I greeted them.

"Just fine, thanks. Have you been here long?"

"We just opened last month. I’m Jack Wells."

"Pleased to meet you. I’m Joe Furstenberger. This is my son, Greg."

"Pleased to meet you, Joe. Hi, Greg."

It was funny, because Greg looked exactly like the boy I’d caught peeing on the alley wall a couple of months before. Judging by the sick look on Greg’s face, I didn’t think it had been his evil twin.

I gave the two of them the nickel tour, then left them to it. A few minutes later, while his dad was browsing through our back issues, Greg came over to me.

"Are you going to tell him?"

"No. I told you that, if you took the spanking, it would stay our secret. Technically, I was talking about your mom, since you don’t HAVE a dad, but I guess we can let it pass."

Though he was blushing at the reference to his lies, relief might as well have been written on his face in great big letters. "Thanks," he added, just in case I’d not noticed the expression.

"So, were you telling the truth about never getting spanked?"

The boy blushed. "No, he spanks me pretty often. Like you do, but with the belt."

"Like I… You mean on your bare bottom?"

His blush deepened and spread to his neck and ears, but he admitted it.

"Well, you did lie to me, so maybe I’ll make you tell me some embarrassing stories sometime, when he’s not around."

Greg smiled, just a bit weakly, as he agreed. Just then, his father called him over to look at something.

Greg and Joe both became regular customers. Greg wasn’t a great storyteller, but I was able to drag a few good ones out of him. He was also very well behaved around me after that, and if he kept marking his territory, he kept his territory well away from mine.