Joe Hardly stretched his arms and looked across the den at his elder brother Frank. “I’m bored,” he faked a yawn, “We haven’t busted any crime in ages.”
Just as well, Frank thought, after the whopping their dad had given them last time. “You want another whipping?” he asked.
Frank rubbed the palm of his hand across the seat of his jeans. His dick stirred as he recalled the sight of his brother bent over dad’s knee in the parlour. His pants were at his feet and his shorts at his shins and his dad pounded the twenty-year-old’s naked buttocks with a brush. He could still hear the yelps Joe made as the monster wood cracked into taut bare flesh.
Dad also kept a paddle hanging on a nail in the woodshed. There was an old worn razor strop next to it in case dad wanted a little variety. And, he wasn’t afraid to use either of them.
“Well,” Joe grinned, “We can’t always be right.” He didn’t resent his dad’s beating. It was an occupational hazard. You win some you lose some. “That guy could have been a master criminal.” He meant a shady character the two boys had been tailing for a week, waiting for him to make his criminal move. “He wore a black hat and a black coat; why was he dressed like a gangster?”
“Because he worked in a funeral home!” his brother retorted, slamming down the magazine he was reading on the coffee table.
“C’mon Frank,” Joe was not deterred by one little failure, “Let’s go to the shore, there are bound to be smugglers,” he paced the room and stood at the door. “Or there will be some criminal on the run hiding out in a cave.” He turned on his heels and left.
“Blast my kid brother,” Frank said in his mind as he rushed to catch Joe at the front door.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second