The boy in the tree

Ricky was the perfect teen. He had just graduated high school top of his class and was waiting to go on to an Ivy League university. He was an avid church attender and believed everything the elders said. He was helpful around the house and to neighbours. He wasn’t into “digging” Elvis Presley like his classmates. He preferred Frank Sinatra and the other records his parents played at home. He didn’t dress in tight, dirty jeans, nor grease his hair. He was always neat and tidy, preferring cotton slacks and sensible sweaters.

But, Ricky had a problem he couldn’t understand and there was nobody he could talk to about it. It was Mr Peters, a man who had moved into the street a couple of months previously. Mr Peters was about the same age as Ricky’s dad. A year or two younger, maybe. Ricky didn’t know too much about Mr Peters – he attended a different church and kept himself to himself in the neighbourhood.

Ricky couldn’t get Mr Peters out of his mind. It got so that Ricky would wait at his bedroom window to watch Mr Peters leave his house in the morning to walk to the railroad station. Then, Ricky would be back at the window in the evening to see him return.

Most people who passed Mr Peters in the street probably wouldn’t give him a second glance. He was average height. Average build. He had no “distinguishing marks” as the police might say. He dressed in sober grey suits. A different one each day, Ricky had noticed. Each one subtly changed from the next. One with a thin blue stripe; another with an almost unnoticeable check.

It was the way Mr Peters walked that impressed Ricky. Shoulders back. Straight spine. He took lengthy strides as though he had to be somewhere in a hurry. Ricky had no idea what employment Mr Peters had, but he would bet it was important. He looked like a man who gave orders. He was so different to Ricky’s dad. The eighteen-year-old labelled him a wimp.

Ricky had no way of talking to Mr Peters. Kids didn’t just walk up to adults and start conversations. It drove him crazy. He wanted to get close. He had dreams. Weird things happened in them. In one, Ricky lived with Mr Peters. He was some kind of houseboy. Mr Peters would order him about. Do this. Clean that. Sweep the yard. Ricky was a bit scared by it. The people at church had taught that boys his age would have dreams about girls and that they ought to control their thoughts. Ricky didn’t think he had ever dreamt about girls.

He started behaving badly. Ricky wasn’t proud of it, but he was getting desperate. After dark he would sneak out of the house and walk down the street and stand near Mr Peters’ home. Just standing. Watching. Frightened that Mr Peters might see him. What would Ricky say if he got caught?

As far as Ricky could see Mr Peters came home each night and spent the time alone. He had no family. No friends dropped by. Not even the neighbours. Ricky was a bit worried that they might spot him. Accuse him of spying. Or “casing the joint” as lurid detective shows on TV that he wasn’t allowed to watch would have it.

The street backed onto another street and Ricky took to standing against the fence of Mr Peters’ backyard. It was too high to see over, but sometimes he heard the sound of voices. It must be the television. Or the radio, he supposed. Ricky was a bright boy, but not always very observant. It took a couple of days before he noticed the tree.

It was a few yards back. But he realised at once that it looked into the yard and if Ricky could climb high enough he might just be able to see into the house. Ricky had never climbed a tree before. It couldn’t be that difficult could it? His younger brother Al was always going up them and he was a dumbass.

It was harder than it looked. He hugged the tree and pulled himself up. He lost his footing now and again, but got himself on a branch. He sat terrified that he might fall. Suddenly, a light went on behind an upstairs window. All fear evaporated. Ricky had a perfect view into the room. It looked like some kind of study. There was a big wooden desk and a bookcase. He couldn’t see the whole room. But, yep, Ricky thought it looked like a study.

z-used-boy-in-tree-2

The teen got the first surprise of the night. The figure he saw walking across the room wasn’t Mr Peters. It was someone he had never seen before. A young man. Not much more than a boy really. No older than Ricky probably.

He watched perched precariously on the branch. The boy walked to the desk. Without hesitating, he bent down and tugged open a drawer. His rear end obscured Ricky’s view. It was quite a narrow butt, the teenager in the tree observed. His jeans fitted tightly, across the cheeks and all the way down his legs. He wore a faded leather jacket and when he stood up Ricky saw he had thick black hair greased into a quiff. The boy pulled something from the drawer, closed it, and left the room leaving the light on as he went.

Ricky’s pulse quickened. Who was that boy? How come he had never seen him before? In all the days Ricky had snooped on Mr Peters he had never had a sniff of a visitor. He thoughts were broken by a movement in the room below. It was some kind of living room. Ricky saw only half of it. There was a large leather couch, a dining room table and two wooden chairs. Mr Peters rose from the couch as the boy entered. Words were exchanged. The boy looked discomforted.

Ricky stared open-mouthed. Astonished. He would never have guessed what would happen next. Not in a million years. This could not be happening. Things would never be the same after this.

The boy handed Mr Peters a wooden paddle. From where he clung onto the tree, it looked like an ordinary paddle to Ricky, the kind that you could find in any school. Mr Peters grasped it in his right hand as if testing its weight. His fist gripped it tightly as he swung it through the air. The boy looked on apprehensively.

More words were spoken. Mr Peters did all the talking. The boy, the listening. And the obeying. Mr Peters stood with a ram-rod back, swiping the paddle menacingly through the air as he gave his orders.

Meekly, the boy unzipped his jacket and pulled it from his shoulders. He hesitated, as if unsure what to do next, before he let it drop onto the table. Mr Peters sat on the couch. He wriggled his hips and legs until his back rested against the solid leather. Then came another instruction.

Salvia drained from Ricky’s mouth. His breathing quickened. He watched as the boy reached to his own belt and unbuckled it. Ricky’s eyes transfixed as the boy unbuttoned his blue jeans and let them fall down his thighs to his knees. Then, the boy parted his legs and gravity took the jeans down until they rested on his sneakers.

The boy moved into the room and out of Ricky’s view. Ricky cursed silently and shifted his buttocks along the branch. He was as close to the end as he could get. Then, the boy came back into view. He stood in front of Mr Peters, hesitated a mere moment, and then hitched his thumbs into the waist of his shorts. With minimal effort he had the shorts on top of his Levi’s. In one continuous athletic movement, he lowered himself over Mr Peters’ lap and adjusted his position until his head rested on the couch seat cushion and his legs spread out behind him. In this way, he was prone across the couch with his buttocks raised over the old man’s thigh.

The boy folded his arms and buried his head in them. He was perfectly positioned to receive the first swat of the paddle. But, Mr Peters was not ready. Ricky felt an unusual stirring in his underwear as he watched Mr Peters grip the boy’s white tee-shirt and pull it up his back towards the shoulders. Now, the boy was almost completely naked. Mr Peters seemed satisfied. He wrapped his left arm around the boy’s waist and held him tightly. The paddle rose, hovered in the air for a moment and came crashing down across the middle of both cheeks. From his distance, Ricky could not hear the smack! the wood made as it connected with force against the boy’s hard naked buttocks. But, he saw the boy raise his head and shake it around before, as if shamed by his action, he settled his face back into his arms.

The paddle hammered the buttocks rat-a-tat-tat. Rapidly. Like machinegun fire. The boy wriggled and writhed. He bucked. He kicked. Mr Peters held him forcibly across the waist. The boy bit deep into his bare arms as his tormentor toasted his naked buttocks. Ricky lost count after twenty swats. They came so quickly it was impossible to keep a tally. On and on the spanking continued.

Then as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. Mr Peters rested the paddle on the couch cushion. The boy wheezed. Ricky had no experience of these things, but he knew the boy was in considerable pain. The boy lay still, regaining his composure.  Mr Peters caressed the boy’s roasted flesh. Small, circular motions. Lovingly. He raised his hand high and slapped his palm into the blistered butt just as hard as he had with the wooden paddle.

Ricky’s dick pressed against his slacks. It had never throbbed so much. The bulge dug into the tree branch. He needed to move position. Just then, the spanking finished. This time for real. Mr Peters released his grip and the boy slowly rose from his prone position. He stood in front of Mr Peters with his back to Ricky and performed the traditional “spanking dance”, hopping from one foot to the other. The boy turned his body slightly and Ricky saw it. Never before had he seen anything like it. It was huge. Even from such a distance. The boy’s boner would have graced a stallion.

Ricky heard a snap, the tree branch wobbled. He stretched his arms out for balance. He saw Mr Peters take hold of the boy’s cock and pull him roughly toward him.

There was an almighty crack and Ricky tumbled to the ground. Winded. He stared up at the broken branch. His back hurt. He panicked. Was it busted?. Gingerly, he wriggled his toes. They worked. He did the same with his fingers.

A door in the fence opened. Ricky saw a pair of house shoes and beige pants. Mr Peters towered above him. The old man frowned. “You’re the Draper kid aren’t you?”

Ricky gasped. The man knew his name. How? Why?

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you spying on my house,” Mr Peters smiled faintly. Ricky blushed. Unsure what to do next. Should he run? Mr Peter’s reached down and offered him an arm. “Come on you. We have business.”

Ricky halted. Business?

“You. Come with me.” The voice was authoritarian. Just as Ricky had dreamt. Mr Peters released his grip on Ricky’s arm and transferred it to his left ear. That way, he dragged the teen through the back yard and into the house. The boy in the jeans was dressed once more. He stood, a sneer splitting his face. He examined Ricky from the top of his clean short cut hair, down his red old-man’s sweater to his brown slacks.

“Who’s the mommy’s boy?”

“He’s a spy. That’s who he is.” Mr Peters released his grip on Ricky’s ear. “Don’t move,” he barked. Ricky stood transfixed. Mr Peters reached to the table and picked up the paddle he had earlier used to blister the boy’s butt.

“You know what must happen now, don’t you?” It was a statement disguised as a question. Ricky stared in awe at the paddle in the grip of his masterful neighbour; the man he had dreamt of so many times.

There was still time to run. He could be out the room and through the front door in seconds. Mr Peters would never chase him into the street. He couldn’t afford for his neighbours to know what went on in his home.

“Bend over the table.” It was a clear command. One that Mr Peters expected to be obeyed. Ricky’s cock twitched. His temples pulsed. Blood rushed north, south, east and west through his arteries. His mouth dried.

In his mind, he counted to three. One. Two. Three. Then, he turned and lowered himself across the table.

 

Other stories you might like

 The house across the street

The sting in the tail

Brocklehurst Crammer

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

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