Stevie Wells: Talking Trouble

It was mid-spring of 1993; April, I think. I was sitting on the couch in Yvonne’s living room when the front door opened. Stevie came barreling inside with all the energy I expected of him. When he saw his mom and me both sitting there quietly, he came to a screeching halt. His backpack dangled unnoticed as he looked back and forth between us.

I’m not quite sure how to describe Steve. It’s hard for me not to say he’s beautiful. After all, in every way that’s important, the boy’s my son. At eleven, he was maybe a hint taller than average, maybe just a smidge under five foot, but he was also lean and sinewy, probably only weighing about seventy-seven pounds or so—which was not to say he was skinny; though he was lean and firm, with very good muscle tone, his stomach wasn’t flat or rippled, and his bottom was a bit too skinny and could have used a bit less in the way of dimples, but was still full and spankable.

Steve had blond hair that had been slowly darkening as long as I’d known him, though it was hard to notice unless you looked in pictures. By this time, it had almost reached that shade where it sometimes looked more light brown than dark blond (which was actually as dark as it ever became). He wore it just above his ears, but didn’t like haircuts, so it was usually hanging over the top of them, curling around his collar, and hanging down towards his eyes. He supposedly wore it parted on the side, but it always seemed to fall onto his forehead, no matter how often his mom combed it. (Since his hair wasn’t half as unruly as mine, I usually didn’t even bother.)

His face was a little rounder than you’d expect from his build—not chubby, but you couldn’t really make out his cheekbones at all. I guess, looking at a picture and trying to be honest, that he was fairly average: except for a slight crease in his chin, his features were all functional but not outstanding. His nose wasn’t huge, but straight and narrow, with a little bob on the end. His lips were full, without being pouty, with cheeks that dimpled deeply when he smiled. His eyelashes were long and thick, but it was hard to tell unless you were right next to him, because of his blond coloring. His blue eyes were very nice, but not really exceptional. Overall, I think it’s fair to say he was very cute, without being exceptionally good looking.

"Hi, Dad."

I winced as he came towards me. He was wearing Bugle Boy pants, which were someplace between brown and green that were still a little too green to be olive drab, and a red polo shirt. He looked like an off-color Christmas decoration, and I made a note to talk to the boy about color combinations, even as I gave him a warm look, without denying my reason for being there.

"Hello, Stevie. How was school today?" I greeted him.

His gaze flicked from me to his mom and back again before answering, "Good?" I’m sure the question was in case some teacher had ratted him out over something he’d not really noticed doing. You could almost see his brain rifling through the file drawers for any items labeled ‘naughty, not punished or uncaught’. At times my weird since of humor might have enjoyed watching him dangle, but now wasn’t really the time for it. Instead, I glanced at Yvonne.

"Steve, I have a few errands to run. I’m going to let you boys talk, and I’ll see you in a bit."

Looking confused (and not a little worried), Steve waved at his mom as she grabbed her purse and left. As soon as she was gone, he turned his confused look to me. I patted the couch and he dropped his backpack and plopped down beside me.

"Your mom and I talked for a while this afternoon, Steve. She says you and she have been fighting a lot lately."

Suddenly the boy went stiff as he realized exactly why I was there. His brain went from search mode to rescue, as he starting trying to decide how much trouble he was in and looking for escape routes.

"Now I can understand arguing with your mom. Lord knows I argued with your granny a lot, though I was probably a bit older than you."

"And you argue with Mom, too."

"Slightly different situation there, son; but yes, I argued with your mom, too. The problem isn’t that you argued, it’s how you argued. Do you have something you think you should tell me?"

‘No, Dad.’ I could almost hear him think, ‘I’m sure you and I are both better off if you’re ignorant in this case.’ Still, he might have been hesitant and nervous, but Steve had always been an honest boy, and he began to tell me his side of what had been going on over the last few weeks.

From what Yvonne had already told me, I'd started off in Stevie’s corner. When she’d had Steve, she’d been a bit younger than my mom was when I was born, which predisposed me to think she wasn’t going to be a great mom. While she and I had dated, I’d not seen a lot of evidence to contradict that. Which isn’t to say she was a terrible mom. She really did try, but she’d not even turned 26 yet and was trying to raise an eleven-year old son. The real trouble was that she wasn’t willing to put his needs ahead of her own, and I’m not even sure she knew there was a difference.

Reluctantly at first, but then more easily, with a sound of relief, Steve began to tell me the whole thing. It all started because his mom had decided to move again, which was bad enough. I’d met Yvonne and Steve when I’d moved into the apartment complex where they lived. It had been the summer of ‘87, and Stevie had been five. I’d lived there for four years, until the comic shop was making enough money that I decided to get my own place, and moved into the condo where I was now living. During that time, Yvonne had moved twice, once during the school year. I’d moved enough during my own elementary school days to understand how he felt, and I’d been settled by the time I was his age, when real friendships start to be forged.

No, the worst part wasn’t the move but that she was moving in with Bruce, a guy that Stevie had made plain to me that he didn’t care for. I still think that Bruce’s biggest problem for Steve might have been his biggest attraction for Yvonne—he wasn’t me. I’d met the guy a couple of times, and he didn’t seem like a complete jerk, but I didn’t understand how Yvonne could have been attracted to me at all and still liked this guy. Since Steve and I had a lot of interests in common and really enjoyed each other’s company, he had the same complaint. Steve did not want to spend time with this guy, much less live with him.

Now I have to admit that I worried a bit and asked about it; but Steve assured me that the guy had swatted his rear a time or two, but had never even taken his jeans down, much less really spanked him. Steve was really shocked when I asked about Bruce touching him inappropriately. I think that if Bruce had been a friend of mine or a teacher, Steve might have gotten along with him. As someone to live with, however, he was apparently way off the radar. Mostly the guy was too wishy-washy, but Steve had a list of other complaints as well.

Finally Steve got around to the reason that Yvonne and I had been talking. Because whatever friendship I’d once felt for her had faded to a dull tolerance, and that due only to Steve, and having no reason to believe she felt any differently, I’d been shocked and worried when she called me in tears. She’d told me that ‘my son’ had been fighting with her almost non-stop for over a week now, he’d been really hurtful, and she didn’t know what to do with him anymore. I’d gotten one of my part-timers to take over the store for me and gone to talk to her. After some discussion, she’d admitted it wasn’t all one-sided, and that she’d said some hurtful things as well, but I had to agree that he was way out of line, even if she was exaggerating his part and downplaying hers.

I have to admit that I was proud of Steve and the way he admitted to what he’d done. He knew he’d gone way overboard. I don’t think that parents are like kings of old and that lèse majesté is a capital (or even necessarily a corporal) offense, but I do think that kids need to show some respect (of course, I also think that parents need to show their kids some respect as well). Yvonne wasn’t the greatest mother in the world, but I do know she loved the kid, and I think she tried. It took him a while to get around to it (I don’t think he was just hesitant at the idea of punishment, but embarrassed by his behavior and stung by his own guilt), but he finally admitted that he’d been saying things just because he was mad at her and wanted to hurt her feelings. Beyond that, he’d been in a snit all week and giving her a hard time, even when they weren’t fighting. I’m sure that was hard for him to admit because if we’d been at my house, he knew his little bottom would have been red the entire week if he’d not straightened himself up.

Of course, everything that he admitted to didn’t agree with what she’d said, but I don’t think either of them was lying to me. Let’s face it—men and women don’t think alike, and kids don’t think like either of them. I think it was really just a case of there being some things that had seemed like major transgressions to her that he’d just blown off. I tend to believe that because he admitted to some things that she’d not bothered to mention. It worked for me since some of the things she’d complained about didn’t seem like a big deal to me, either. Since I was another guy, some of the things to which Stevie admitted that his mom hadn’t mentioned seemed worse than some of them that she had. Then again, some of the things to which he’d sadly confessed didn’t seem that bad to me, either.

The boy was almost limp by the time the recitation was through. I honestly believe that if there was anything he didn’t mention, it was really minor to him. Part way through his confession, he’d gone from sitting next to me and looking towards me, to leaning back against me, so he could face away. At times when I’m lecturing, I make sure the boy is looking right in my eyes, since that’s as close as I can come to making sure he’s paying attention. This was different though, and I’m sure it was easier for him to admit everything without having to look at me while he did it. After all, isn’t the hardest part of admitting any mistake the fear of how it might make someone we care for see us?

There was a few moments’ silence. I was waiting to see if Steve had anything else to say and just letting him gather himself again before we talked any more. I felt him shift against me and was trying to decide the best thing to say when he sat up and turned to face me again.

"Am I gonna get a spanking?"

"Do you think you deserve a spanking, Steve?"

I was never asked questions like that when I was a kid, but I knew boys who were, and they hated it. To be honest, I see it as a three-pronged tool, and two of them will turn around and bite you. In the first place, a lot of boys will use that question as an excuse to give every argument, no matter how lame, that they don’t deserve one. A lot more boys will simply see it as one more way that you’re torturing them by drawing things out and giving them false hope. However, a few boys will really think about the question, think about their behavior, and, for those boys, that one question does better than thirty minutes of lecture.

Steve was the last type of boy.

After a few moments of thought, Steve finally said, in a quiet, quivery voice, "Yes, sir."

"Why?"

To be honest, it would probably have been easier for me to just lecture, and then spank him. On the other hand, I wasn’t really sure of how to react to this myself, so I was giving both of us time to think about it—time when his mom wasn’t there complaining.

"Because I was rude to mom, and because I didn’t mind her, and because I let her make me mad and wasn’t doing stuff I should have done."

"Like what?"

"Well, we’d fight, and I’d be mad, so I’d just go to my room and not do my chores like I’m supposed to."

She hadn’t said anything about that. I gave the boy a pat, trying to let him know I was proud of him for admitting that, both to himself and to me.

"All right, Stevie; we have something else we need to talk about, but I think we should go ahead and get the spanking over with. Okay?"

"Yes, sir," he answered, relief evident in his voice. Steve knew that once I decided on a spanking, he wasn’t going to get out of it, so getting it over with quickly was the best remaining option.

I stood up and offered him my hand, then pulled him from the couch before following him to his bedroom. He and I had been through this many times before. As soon as I was sitting on the edge of his bed, he lifted his shirt, then paused and looked at me. I nodded at him to let him know he could do it himself, and he tucked the shirt under his chin and began to undo the fly of his Bugle Boys. As soon as the zipper was down, he spread the slacks apart to reveal snowy white Jockey shorts. He slid the pants down his hips, then paused just long enough to kick off his shoes, before taking the pants the rest of the way off. His bottom was nicely framed by the thin, white briefs as he turned to the closet. Folding the pants neatly, he hung them over a plastic hanger and put them back in the closet. Then he pulled the shirt off, dropping it in a plastic laundry basket, before turning back to me. He slipped his fingers into the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down to his knees. When they fell to his ankles, he grimaced but stepped out of them, then picked them up and dropped them on his dresser.

At eleven-and-a-half, he wasn’t a little boy anymore. Instead of a little smaller than my pinky, he was about the size of my ring finger, and it seemed his little head was swelling a bit. Mr. Happy was hanging down limply right then over a pair of balls that were hanging loosely enough you could tell he had two of them. Though they weren’t hanging very far, they had definitely swollen up from the little peas they’d been a year ago. Of course, Steve was used to sleeping naked at my house, camping with me, and even making occasional trips to the gym, so there was very little modesty between us, and no shyness. His concern was all for what I was going to be doing to his bottom rather than anything I might be seeing for the ten thousandth time.

Steve just stood there for a moment, naked, but not really conscious of it. He was obviously thinking about something, so I gave him the time. Finally he turned away from me towards the dresser where a copy of his paddle waited. His head raised a bit, so I thought he was looking in the mirror. Then he nodded, sadly and not without reluctance, and turned back to me.

"Do you want me to get the brush?"

When a boy asks a question like that, the answer should probably be yes. If he’s asking, it’s either because you’re obviously extremely mad at him (which I was sure I wasn’t), or because it’s what he thinks his crimes have earned.

I glanced at the dresser and could see the brush lying there, though I could picture it even without being able to see it. It was a normal wooden hairbrush, nearly a half-inch thick, without decoration. The back wasn’t quite flat, with a very slight curve and rounded edges. It was two inches wide and not quite twice as long, with another three inches of handle. It was a little too small for me to use really comfortably, but it seemed perfect for his little bottom.

I knew Stevie was terrified of that brush. We’d only used it twice before. The first time was just after Thanksgiving last year, right before he’d turned eleven. We’d been doing some Christmas shopping, and he’d run off from me. I’d called the expedition to a halt, and we headed straight home. He was sure he was going to get paddled, but I was extremely upset and felt something a little more was called for. My hairbrush was lying in plain sight on the table by the front door, so I made use of it. It had been so effective that I went out and found two more, as close to exactly like it as I could—one for Stevie’s room at my house and one for him to keep here, thinking it would be a reminder more than anything else.

As quickly as those thoughts flicked through my head, I was already answering him. "Is that what you think you deserve, Steve?"

He’d been looking at me, but now his gaze fell to the floor, then flicked to the dresser, before coming back to me. He looked more than extremely nervous; the boy was scared, but he still nodded.

I may have been too strict with Stevie a lot of times, but the boy believed in the cleansing power of a good spanking as much as I did. While he and his mom didn’t always get along (she often made him crazy, another trait the two of us shared), I know he loved her very much, and I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he’d told me he’d been torn up by the guilt of fighting with her, even while he was doing it. He needed the brush right then, no matter what I thought.

"All right, then; hand it here."

Even though it had been his suggestion, reluctance still screamed in his every move as he turned towards the dresser and leaned over to reach the brush. Lifting it gingerly, he turned back to me and held it out. I took it from him, and his face was an interesting mix of relief at having it out of his hand and worry about what it would do in my hand. He took another step towards me, bringing him right to my side, and then hesitated.

"Are... are you going to give my whole spanking with it?"

I had several different styles I used on Steve, depending on how much trouble he was in. When he’d been younger, most spankings were just with my hand. Sometimes I’d finish up with the paddle, usually giving the swats to equal his age, sometime all over his bottom, but sometimes concentrating on his sit spots. As he grew older, or for really serious behavior, he’d get his whole spanking with the paddle. He’d only ever received the brush to finish off a hand spanking. I did think about it. Steve took his spankings pretty well, but I knew a whole spanking with the brush would push him way past his limits, and as much as I love Steve, I have to admit the temptation was there.

But only for a second.

"No, what you did was wrong and you deserve to be punished for it; but you know it was wrong, and I think you’re really sorry for it. Get over my lap and you can hold on to the brush ‘til we’re ready for it."

For just one second, I thought he was going to argue with me. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t known him so well, but it was enough to make me wonder if there was something else I didn’t know about. Whatever made him pause didn’t last long, though. I guess he decided I was right, and he’d know better than I did if he was really sorry or not. Not to mention the idea that an entire spanking with the brush must have been cause for nightmares.

In the years since I’d first spanked him, Steve had spent a lot of time over my lap, but sitting on the edge of a bed wasn’t a preferred position for me, and it took a bit of adjustment to get him in place and not totally uncomfortable. As soon as we were settled, I handed him the brush, then ran my hand over his lean flank, enjoying the relatively cool, soft feel that would soon be gone temporarily, then giving the plush flesh a brief squeeze on each cheek before my hand came up.

Steve did take his spankings pretty well, but he still tensed as my hand came up from the squeeze. I didn’t have a regular pattern, so he was never sure exactly how things would go, but there was no doubt what was coming right then. He jerked just a bit as the first swat fell. I raised my hand and glanced at the pinkish blot where it had just been before putting its mate on the other cheek.

My hand was big enough that I could have nearly covered an entire cheek with each swat, but I’ve always preferred to draw things out a bit. Instead of just trying to cover the summit of each cheek, I tried to cover everyplace, letting my fingers curl a bit to get into the dimples and the tender flesh between the cheeks. Knowing how the spanking would be finished, I didn’t concentrate on any one area; his sit spots got no more attention than his upper cheeks did, but no less either; his legs turned the same shade of red as his bottom.

I said that Steve took his spankings pretty well, but that’s a relative statement. I mean that he tried not to fight and didn’t carry on ridiculously. Still, he was a naughty little boy who knew he deserved this and wanted to expiate his crimes. He was accepting, but I think the acceptance weakened any chance he had at stoicism.

He was quiet at first, though he still jerked a bit each time my hand smacked down across his little bottom. When I got to his legs, his feet jerked and kicked a bit and didn’t stop when I moved back to his bottom. As his bottom started to glow a dark pink, he started to yelp a bit, ouching and oohing with each new swat. As the pink turned rosy, I could see his shoulders jerk every once in a while with the urge to cover himself, and finally felt him take a firm hold on my ankle. As the rose gave way to red, his yelps became real cries, and then were broken by soft sobs. I stopped there, and Stevie went stiff, knowing it was too early.

The boy had asked about my giving his entire spanking with the brush. I’d thought that would be way too much for him, but maybe he did need to go a little past what he’d had before.

"Hand me the brush, Steve."

Even though the brush had been his idea, this wasn’t something he was really looking forward to, and he groaned and went limp. There was a brief pause, but I didn’t have to repeat myself before his shoulder shifted and his arm came up behind him, offering the implement of his doom to me.

I took it from him, then penned his hand under my left arm to the small of his back. I firmed my grip on him, then lifted the brush.

Instead of his sit spots, I smacked the brush down on the upper part of his left cheek, then again at the same spot on his right cheek. He howled when the first smack landed and began to really cry at the second. Each blotch the brush left was a deep red, and I knew each one was burning like fire on his already stinging bottom, but it didn’t keep me from placing another set just below those first two.

Three swats down each cheek, two more on each leg, then three more right down the center of his bottom, and Stevie was bawling. He was jerking and squirming, kicking and wiggling hard, trying to get away from the unbearable sting in each swat from that horrible implement. By the time the last three swats had tracked down the length of his crack, he’d already had more smacks with the brush than I’d ever given him before, but we still weren’t quite through; I was going to make sure he felt he’d paid for all his bad behavior this last week.

Stevie may have been bawling hard and loud, but not so hard that, when he felt the brush line up on the sit spot of his left cheek, he wasn’t able to cry out at me, "No, Dad. No more. I’m sorry. Pl... awww!" he shrieked as the first of six final swats landed.

His shriek was continuous as that brush cracked down, back and forth, left, then right, again and again, on those tender, already stinging spots. The smacks were quick, but no less firm than the earlier swats had been. He wasn’t squirming anymore; his body was too rigid for that, with his legs straight out and his back arched. His only struggle was to poke his left hand between us or get his right hand free so he could cover his rear and hope to delay that burning onslaught, if only for a second. He couldn’t, though, and it was over nearly as quick as he could react.

A couple of seconds after the last swat, Stevie’s body went limp and his shriek died away, but he was still bawling plenty hard. I left him there for a moment, sitting the brush beside me, then gently rubbing his flaming hot cheeks, before I moved to sit him up.

As he came off my lap and I was turning him, Steve started to struggle, trying to push away from me.

"That was too hard!" he nearly yelled at me.

I let it pass, understanding the agony he was in. The fact that he pushed my hands away, causing me to drop him against my leg didn’t make it any better for him. Still crying hard and loud, tears and snot running down his face, I took his face in my hand, so he had to look at me.

"Then I guess you’re glad I didn’t give your whole spanking with the brush like you asked. Aren’t you?"

His damp face was screwed up in agony and fresh tears were still flowing down his face, but he heard me. He wanted to be mad at someone, wanted to lash out because he was in pain, but he was honest enough and loved me enough that he could admit to himself that, as badly as it hurt, I’d still let him off more easily than he’d suggested. He finally nodded and let me pull him against me. I kissed his forehead as he carefully curled into my lap, holding tight and crying against my chest.

We sat that way for several minutes. It probably hadn’t been the worst spanking he’d ever had, but it had been bad enough, and he needed some quiet time to come to grips with the pain and with himself. Finally I felt him lean back a bit and let go of him.

"Corner time now?" he sniffed.

"No, I think we have too much to do this afternoon, so you’ll have to skip corner time today."

I think the ‘have’ almost brought a smile to his face, but he wasn’t quite ready to laugh yet. "Like what?" he asked instead.

"Well, you know you’re going to have to move, so you have to make some decisions. Like, you have a bunch of extra stuff at my house right now. Do you want to take your school stuff to my house and leave the rest with your mom, or take everything over to my house, and then pick out some stuff to leave at your mom’s new place?"

Though it was fading, his face still clearly showed his pain, but it was quickly replaced by confusion, for just a second, before he suddenly looked like he’d seen heaven. "You mean I can live with you now?"

I nodded. "Your mom and I talked it over before you got home. She thinks that part of the trouble is that you’re a boy, and you’re getting older, and it’s time you were around a man more. Do you want to move in with...?"

I didn’t get to finish the question before all the air was squeezed out of me. I hugged him tightly, but I could tell that fresh tears were running down his face. I finally took his shoulders and pushed him back a bit.

"Stevie, if you choke me to death, you won’t be able to live with me."

This time he did smile.





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