THE ALTAR BOYS
A BOYSPANKING VIGNETTE
by
Chris Buckley, Jr.
As told to Bobb B. Tucker
CHAPTER ONE
It began innocently, the way most boyhood devilment starts: On a winter evening
in 1964, my brother, Trevor, and I, and our buddy, Tommy Caley, attended an
altar boys' meeting at St. Aloysius' Church, in Pittsburgh's North Side. Tommy
and I were eighth graders at Sacred Heart Parochial that year; Trevor was a year
ahead of us. After the meeting, we had cocoa and cookies at the parish hall.
In the distance we could hear the shriek of tugboat whistles as coal barges were
moved along the Allegheny bound for steel mills down river. It was a Friday
evening, so we were allowed out 'til nine o'clock.
"Hey, do you guys wanna have some fun?" Tommy asked with a boyish grin.
"Doin' what?" I parried.
"Do you see that sign?" He pointed to an electrical sign whose plastic block
letters had flashed a message every Friday and Saturday evening since I'd been
in diapers:
HOLY NAME SOCIETY
OPEN BINGO
TONIGHT!!!
"So what?" Trevor asked, "it's only a sign."
"Damon showed me how to change it and have some fun. He woulda done it
himself, but I guess he chickened out." Damon Caley was Tom's big brother, he'd
recently begun his Freshman year at Allegheny Community College. "Do you guys
see anybody about?"
Trevor shook his head. "Naw," he said, "the coast is clear."
"Okay - watch this." Tommy pulled letters from the sign, rearranged them,
and stepped back to admire his handiwork:
HOLY NAME SOCIETY
POON BINGE
TONIGHT!!!
"I don't get it," Trevor said. "What does it mean?"
"Poon means pussy, Buckley. Don't'cha know anything?"
"I know you'd better change it back before Father Delgado sees it."
"Bear farts, I'm proud of that sign. Besides, anybody could've rearranged
the letters. What Father don't know won't hurt him any."
Trevor shrugged and said, "Then, we'd better get outta here and hope nobody
remembers we were at the parish hall tonight."
? ? ?
After playing the pinball machine at a mom and pop grocery, we headed for the
Caley's house on Spring Garden Avenue. No sooner were we inside than a look at
the face of Tommy's dad hinted that the evening would not be pleasant. Jack
Caley sat on a sofa in front of a flickering fire watching Gilligan's Island
with Tommy's brothers, Damon and Jason Lee. Jason was twelve - scarcely old
enough to jack - Damon would turn eighteen in a few weeks. "Boys," Mr. Caley
said to us, "I had a call from Father Delgado about half-an-hour ago. He said
that Sister Mary Immaculata looked out the rectory window earlier this evening
and saw three St. Aloysius altar boys vandalizing church property by altering
the bingo sign into a crude vulgarity. I don't suppose you guys know anything
about it?"
Tommy's right eye blinked like it always did when he was about to tell a
whopper. "Who, us, Daddy?" he asked in an innocent little boy's soprano.
Jack Caley taught gym and coached varsity football at Millvale High School,
up the Allegheny River from Pittsburgh; he brooked no nonsense from misbehaving
thirteen-year-olds. "Yes, you," he snapped. "Get over here, mister, You and
your little buddies are overdue for a session with The Boytamer, a situation
that is about to change."
"Aw. Jeezum, sir!"
Tommy's little brother, Jason Lee, smiled up angelically at his father.
"Are you gonna spank them, sir?" he asked hopefully. "It'ud serve them right;
I'd sure hate to be in their shoes when they go to confession Sunday and have to
tell the priest what they did to the bingo sign."
Tommy thrust out his lower jaw and shot back, "Mind your own beeswax, Jason
- this is none ya bidness."
"Your brother is right, son," the coach warned. "Unless you're cruising for
spanking yourself, I suggest you mind your p's and q's and make no comments
about the trouble Tommy and the Buckley boys are in. That was the only warning
you'll get, so button your lips; if you don't, you'll find yourself pants down
across my lap."
"Yes, sir." Jason Lee weighed his options. He had a son's healthy respect
for the razor-strop - nicknamed "The Boytamer" - that his dad kept by the
bathroom sink where he and his brothers couldn't miss seeing it each time they
brushed their teeth. He knew it had been employed sporadically throughout his
eldest brother's junior-high and highschool years. But Jason had long ago
realized that his dad's strap was reserved for use on boys who'd passed the
magic milestone and were teenagers. Since Tommy was nearly thirteen-and-a-half,
and experiencing the razor-strop for the first time, Jason calculated he had
nearly a year of wiggle room remaining before his turn came. Until then, his
worst-case scenario would be an over-the-knee spanking. He'd survived
half-a-dozen of them over the years, and had displayed purple hickies on his
buttocks in the YMCA boys' locker-room afterwards as proudly as a brand new
Eagle Scout showing off his merit badges.
"You'd better listen to what Daddy's tellin' you, Jason Lee," Damon said.
"Think, for a change, before you put your mouth into gear."
"Christopher and Trevor," the coach said to me and my brother, "I had a talk
with your mother after Father Delgado's call."
"What'ud she say, sir?" Trevor asked.
"She thinks you both need a damn good spanking, and I volunteered to do the
job."
My brother and I nodded glumly. "I reckon that'ud be okay," Trevor allowed,
"we knew what we were doing was wrong."
Our father had been a Pittsburgh fireman; soon after he was killed in a
blaze at the pickle works, the Caley boys' dad assured Mom that if Trevor or I
ever needed a man's firm hand, he'd treat us exactly as he disciplined his own
boys. "Are you gonna do it now, sir?" I asked. "Are we s'posed to take our
pants off or something? What if Mrs. Caley walks in and sees our donnaghers?"
The temptation to run his mouth was too much for Jason Lee, who smirked
evilly and said, "All she'll see on you will be a couple BB's and an inchworm."
The coach, tall and angry, glowered down at his youngest son. "What did you
just say, boy?" he demanded.
The magnitude of Jason's mistake sank in. He shifted a wad of Fleers Double
bubble gum in his cheek and avoided eye contact with his dad. "Nothin', sir, I
was just makin' a joke," he stammered.
"You were cracking wise," the coach retorted. "What did I tell you would
happen if you did it again?"
Jason hung his head and muttered, "I forgot, Daddy."
"Perhaps next time you'll remember; your disobedience just earned you twelve
bare-ass zingers, mister."
"I tried to warn you, Jason Lee," Damon interrupted, "but you're a stubborn
Irish kid who won't listen to your big brother."
Jason stuck his lip out in a petulant sulk. "Damon should get it, too,
Daddy," he tattled. "He showed Tommy how to change the letters in the Bingo
sign to make them spell something dirty."
"Is that true, Damon?"
Damon flushed. "Yes, sir," he admitted. "I figured out which letters to
change a couple weeks ago, but I didn't dare do it, myself. Today, I told Tommy
how, because he's crazy enough to do anything."
Mr. Caley sighed loudly. "Son," he said, "I hope you're proud of yourself.
Because of what you did, three young boys have strip naked, kneel on the day
bed, and be whipped with a leather strap. Tommy and Chris are thirteen-years
old; Trevor is fourteen. How old are you?"
"Seventeen, goin' on eighteen - you know that, Daddy."
"Yes, of course. Moreover, your littlest brother will get whacks because
he found your prank an inspiration for his usual smartass comments, even after I
warned him to keep his mouth shut."
Damon bit his lip; his bright Celtic-blue eyes reflected the fire's orange
glow. "I'm sorry, sir," he whispered. "I acted unwisely."
"You're about to become a whale of a lot sorrier, buddy," the coach
promised. "In the Caley household, a twelve-year-old is treated differently
than a seventeen-year-old because he's presumed to lack experience and judgment
and can't be held to the same standard of behavior as the older boy. That's why
Jason is about to feel the flat of my hand on his heiney, while the older boys
will get the strap."
"Yes, sir - that sounds reasonable."
"You're goddamn right it's reasonable. That's why I'm about to spank you
over my knee along with Jason. You've proven yourself too immature to be whipped
like a teenager, Damon," Coach Caley charged. "You've left me no choice other
than to line you up with your little brother for a bare-hand-on-bare-ass
spanking."
"Jeezum, Dad - I'm a college freshman."
"When you can act like a college man, you'll be treated in an
age-appropriate manner. As long as you boost up younger boys to vandalize
church property and post vulgar signs for the whole parish to see, you can
expect to be treated like an elementary school boy. The decision to spank you
has been made; you'll get it in front of your brothers and the Buckley boys."
Damon realized that further argument would be futile. "Yes, sir," he
sighed, "It'll sure be a lesson to me."
The coach's vexation was apparent. "We might's well get started," he said
brusquely. "excuse yourself, go upstairs, take a shower and use the toilet.
You're to shave around your penis while you're in the shower, son. Boys with
hair around their balls are old enough to be whipped when they misbehave, but a
little kid's spanking is what you're going to get. Naughty little boys don't
have hairy balls; since you've proved yourself a naughty little boy, you're to
shave every last wisp of pubic hair from around your dick."
"Aw, Daddy, do I gotta?"
"Do not argue with me, boy, goddamn it!"
"Yes, sir." Damon sunk off like a fifth grader sent to the principal's
office for smoking in the boy's room. After a moment the upstairs toilet
flushed and a shower turned on.
? ? ?
Four frightened boys sat before the television set, trying to concentrate on
Gilligan's Island. Jason Lee glanced nervously at a cuckoo clock on the wall.
"I wonder what's taking Damon so long?" he asked of nobody in particular.
"Who cares?" Tommy retorted. "He's prob'ly shaving his balls."
Jack Caley turned off the t.v. and said, "You guys and I are about to
embark on some male bonding - strictly man and boy stuff. Mrs. Caley is at her
Legion of Mary meeting, so you needn't concern yourselves about her waltzing in
on us while your clothes are off. Jason Lee, old son, you might's well be
first. Stand up and pull 'em down."
Jason got to his feet and dropped his pants. It was a bitter January day;
he wore thermal long Johns beneath dungarees, boxers beneath the long-handles,
and Jockey shorts next to his skin. As he thumbed down three sets of
underpants, he injected a measure of gallows humor into the spanking ritual.
"There's gotta be a penis under here somewhere," he said nervously. Until then,
I'd convinced myself that Mr. Caley planned to scare hell out of us, then issue
a last-minute reprieve. But, confronted with Jason's little bare penis and the
gurgle of water through upstairs plumbing as Damon defoliated his groin, I had
to accept the reality of my first whipping.
"Tommy, run upstairs, see what's keeping your big brother, and bring The
Boytamer when you return. You Buckley boys are to undress and stand by the
window 'til I'm ready for you - it won't be long."
"I ain't in no hurry, Coach," Trevor retorted.
My brother and I stripped to our Jockeys and faced the coach, our hands
protectively behind us, trying to ignore the kielbasas tent-poling out our
shorts, "Shall we dispense with modesty and remove our underpants, gentlemen?"
the coach asked as casually as if he were asking us to take off our hats in the
house.
We thumbed down our drawers and kicked out of them. No one could say the two
redheaded Irish kids from the Homer Street project were lacking in the penis
department. "You guys might's well relax while I settle with Jason and Damon,"
Mr. Caley said, beckoning for his youngest boy to approach. Jason clapped both
hands over the crack of his ass - as if he were having an attack of fecal
urgency. "Don't be bashful - step up," the father urged. "Show us you have a
pair of big Irish balls in your scrotum."
The redhead chomped on his bubble gum. "What's a scrotum, Daddy?" he asked.
"I expect we had better have a long talk about the birds and the bees," the
coach said. "We'll do it at bedtime tonight. Right now, you're to go over my
knee for twelve wallops that you'll remember for the rest of your life. You and
I have been through this before, son; you know the drill."
"Yes, sir." Jason brushed an unruly red cowlick from his eyes; he looked
anxious and frightened, unlike the happy-go-lucky boy he'd been earlier. He
hoisted shirttails to his armpits and thumbed dungarees and long johns further
down his legs. A little pink boner thrust from his pubes like a
Jack-in-the-box. "'Pantsed and drawered, and fixing to get Bayer Ass Burns for
something I didn't do," he grumbled.
"You're being spanked for running your mouth and for disobedience," The
father retorted. Jack Caley converted the sofa into a day bed and sat on it.
"Lie across my lap with your erection pointing between my legs at the floor so
it won't rub anything while I'm spanking you," he said. "And don't even think
of reaching back to cover your ass when it gets hot."
Jason screwed up his face and eased himself over his dad's lap with the
expression of a convict being strapped into an electric chair. "What'ud happen
if my dick rubs something, Dad?" he asked, more to put off his spanking than
because he really wanted to know.
Jason's dad's face reddened. "Come bedtime, when we have our talk, we'll
discuss what happens when a boy your age stimulates himself by rubbing his
erection," he said. "For now, you're to relax and try not to cry."
The boy and craned back at his bottom, which was tense and rimpled in
anticipation of a spanking. "I ain't gonna cry, Daddy," he blurted. "Crying's
for babies." Jason Lee was the color of a dead boy on an embalmer's workable.
His dad rested a hand on his bottom; Jason's ass shriveled like a snail
shrinking back into its shell.
Jack Caley rested a hand over Jason's kidneys to hold and steady him and
raised the other high above the culprit's skinny hind end. "Tell me when you're
ready, son," he said softly.
Jason took a deep breath and shuddered as if a deranged nurse were probing
his anus with the pointy end of an icicle. "Let 'er rip, Daddy," he shrilled in
a little boy's squeaky soprano. "I bet'cha I don't cry."
The Coach's calloused palm connected with his son's bare rear with a pop
like an M-80 exploding inside a mailbox. Jason emitted an anguished yelp. A
pink wad of Fleers Double Bubble Gum shot from his mouth and came to rest on his
underpants, laying wadded on the floor. "Ow, Daddy! Ow! It hurts! It hurts!"
He commenced to buck and cry like the kid he was - a priapic twelve-year-old,
pants and shorts about his ankles, getting a spanking from his dad. His limbs
thrashed and flailed; his taut little heinder segued from pasty white to pink,
from pink to rose madder, and from rose to crimson. Boogers flowed freely from
his nostrils, mixed with tears, trickled down his cheeks, and clung to the point
of his chin.
Jack Caley executed his fatherly duty as if he were killing water snakes.
Jason Lee, the little sixth grader who'd resolved not to cry, wailed and
hollered so lustily that pigeons roosting on the outside window casement
fluttered off in search of quieter neighbors. Trevor and I stuffed fingers
into our ears and flinched each time Mr. Caley's hand raised a new welt on his
incandescent buttocks.
Since our dad died, Mom reminded my brother and me from time to time of Mr.
Caley's promise to spank us we ver became too boisterous for a woman's
discipline. Of course, we understood that to mean we were walking on thin ice;
it was more a question of when - not if - we'd be coachspanked. That intrigued
us; many times we played spanking games in our bedroom. One would play coach
Caley, the other would lie across the "coach's" lap with his pants down to see
how many whacks he could take without whimpering or putting a hand back; my
personal record was seven. When inevitably we were taken to task for
misbehavior, Trevor and I had rehearsed our punishment scenario at least dozen
times. While I was resigned to a naked spanking, I was unprepared for the knot
of ice-cold eels squirming in my belly, the excited sensation in my nuts, or for
what was, without question, the longest, firmest erection I'd ever had.
Facing our very first licking, Trevor and I felt as we'd felt the previous
summer when Mom took us to Kennywood Amusement Park outside Pittsburgh so we
could ride the Thunderbolt, the most fearsome roller coaster in Pennsylvania.
When Coach Caley finished with Jason, the kid commenced hopping about the living
room, clutching his ass, blowing through his teeth, and making noises like a
bull calf at gelding time. And the excited sensation in my groin was the same
that I'd known as the Thunderbolt neared the first drop off and started down.
It was too late to turn back, and what awaited scared the shit out of me. I'd
felt that I was embarking on a scary adventure on the top of the Thunderbolt; I
was on the brink of another big adventure standing naked in front of a
flickering fire in the Caley's living room.
Tommy and Damon returned from the bathroom. Damon was nude, except for a
bath towel about his waist. Tommy undressed without waiting to b e told. Coach
Caley turned to his oldest son and said, "Drop the towel and step over here,
Damon. It's your turn."
TO BE CONTINUED
