Meeting the Neighbors


by Thomas Hobbes <Sebboh@hotmail.com>

One hot September afternoon my neighbor from across the street and I were sitting out on the back porch. We had spent most of the afternoon getting better acquainted--he had only moved in recently--and together had nearly emptied a twelve pack of beer. Randy and his housemate, Pat, had not been much in evidence for the month they had lived in the house. Since the paper listed only Randy's name as the purchaser I wondered if Pat was just a friend renting a room . . . or more.

With my wife out of town I had the leisure to spend the afternoon on the deck drinking beer. When I saw Randy out washing his car, I invited him over to see if I could get confirmation on his relationship with Pat. Finally, after a few hours of slow drinking, I casually asked if they were just sharing the rent--or more. Pat looked up, smiled, and said, "More."

This was my chance as a straight to ask all those questions about gay lovers and I quickly followed the opening gambit with a second question which, I thought, well might be the brick wall and the end of a new friend. "What's it like making love to a guy?" I asked gingerly.

"Same as it is to a woman," Randy replied, laughing. "With one exception, obviously," he added. "Kissing, petting, oral, anal, masturbation, games, and fantasies all the same." It was clear he not only would talk intimately, he wanted to share and was open and easy with the question. There must be some exhibitionist (and voyeur) in all of us, I guess.

"What about you and Nicole?" he asked. "What do you like to do?"

"About the same things you just listed," I replied, uncomfortable at having the table turned round.

"Come on," he smirked, his eyes locking on mine. "What's your favorite game with Nicole? The secret fantasy no one can know, the real jalapeno in your _s_e_x_ life. Rubber? Voyeurism? Maybe a little leather?" he teased.

Sober I would have quickly retreated from this but sober I was not. "Spanking," I whispered recklessly.

"Very interesting," Randy said after returning from the house with yet another cold beer for each of us. "That beautiful, gentle wife of yours allows herself to be spanked?" he asked, obviously curious for more lurid detail on this revelation.

"No," I stumbled onward, "that beautiful, gentle wife of mine does the spanking."

"You should have investigated a bit more before you married her," Randy replied, laughing.

"Actually it was I who initiated the game when we first married and Nicole who was reluctant. Now she has as much--or more--fun at it."

"You should know," Randy said, taking a long sip of beer,"that Pat and you share the same favorite 'kink.' As a matter of fact, just last night I took Pat down to the basement shop for a session with the razor strop."

In the silence that followed that bawdy declaration I was picturing (or trying to picture) Pat bent over with Randy standing behind him laying the strap to his backside just as Nicole did to mine. My _c_o_c_k_, now fully erect in my shorts, matched the bulge in Randy's. I wanted to hear more and it was clear he wanted the same.

"And Pat just stood there and took a licking like some fourteen year old in the principal's office?" I asked.

"Sure did!" Randy was enjoying this. "Not only took it, but took his pants down first, handed me the razor strop, asked politely for a good whipping, and thanked me for it after." He paused. "Course he knew there would be a good, stiff set with the cane if he chose not to cooperate. He knows the boundaries and the penalties."

For a moment my throat constricted as I took this in. Randy looked amused as I sat there, nearly drunk, jaw slack, staring at him. This guy sure was an exhibitionist, at least an oral exhibitionist, if there is such a thing.

"Nicole is a pussycat compared to that, I would guess," he continued. "But Pat's a big boy and he can take it. In fact, I think he would be disappointed with less. Hand spanking is really for kids and women: I mean the old across-the-lap whomping with the hand. Over the past few years I guess I have tried just about everything but have settled on two options--the razor strop and a cane. What about you? What does Nicole use to warm your buns?"

"Depends," I stammered, wondering how the conversation had got to this point. "She has used just about everything, too,--willow switch, hairbrush, rubber hose, paddle, belt--but usually she takes a leather strap. Once in while she lets me off light with the ruler, but on rare occasions she will use a willow switch, too."

"So she's not a wussy!"

"Definitely not. It sounds like your routine with Pat is about the same as Nicole has with me."

"Well," Randy said slowly, thinking, "maybe I will speak to her when she comes back and see if she would like to add a new twist. If she is interested I might send Pat to her sometime when he has a punishment coming."

"She'd be delighted, I'm sure, but would probably want reciprocity," I ventured cautiously, eyeing Randy for a reaction.

"That," he said, "would be my pleasure. But I don't think you would like it." After a minute or two of silence, he added, "Maybe you should sample before you get in too far." Another silence followed while he waited for a reply.

The alcohol erased the last of my inhibitions and my curiosity proved too much. "Come on in," I said, getting up and heading into the house. "I'll show you Nicole's war chest." Who was the exhibitionist now, I thought.

Randy set his beer down and followed me into the house. In the kitchen I took the key from the hook and led him to the garage where I unlocked the cabinet on the wall next to the door. I stepped aside and he reached into the cabinet and took the leather strap from a peg. He flexed it, slapped it against the palm of his hand, and then returned it to the peg.

"Right here in the garage?" he asked, turning to me after taking the switch from a small water- filled vase.

"No, sir," I said, voice shaking. "Usually I get it in the basement; sometimes out in the shed at the far end of the backyard."

Randy returned the switch to the cabinet and took the eighteen inch wooden ruler out. "Very, very nice," he enthused as he put the ruler back into the cabinet. "But I think a 'test by fire' is called for here."

"Yes, sir," I replied, nearly coming inside my jeans.

"You take the strap, go out to the shed, and wait for me. When I come in you will hand it to me, take your jeans and your briefs down, and then bend over for a licking. I am going home for a minute and will bring back the razor strop I use on Pat: you are going to get a good dozen licks with each and then tell me which is best." That said, he turned and walked out.

Our backyard is very large--nearly a half acre-- and backs out on a small creek. In the far corner tall pine trees surround a wooden tool shed about ten by twelve feet . Under Nicole's direction I had refurbished the inside completely and it was specially set up to accommodate her using it in our spanking games. The walls and ceiling were lined with Styrofoam insulation to moderate the temperatures and muffle sound. Inside it was clean and neat with tools hung on the wall opposite the door. A wooden work bench lined another wall and a padded saddle trestle stood in the middle of the shed. Directly opposite the front of the trestle a four by eight foot panel could be slid aside to reveal a floor to ceiling mirror which reflected nearly the entire shed interior. When bent across the trestle you could see everything going on behind you and Nicole especially enjoyed the voyeurism this afforded. On the outside the shed appeared nothing more than a dilapidated old tool barn with a full cord of wood piled alongside waiting for a winter fire.

As I made my way across the yard, strap in hand, I nearly decided that I had gone too far with Randy. Sobriety was quickly returning, my heart was thumping, and my legs beginning to wobble a bit with the thoughts of what would soon come. But I resolved to go through with it if he did come back. I went into the shed, hung the strap on a hook over the bench, pulled the trestle out into the middle of the room, opened the panel to uncover the mirror, and waited in nervous anticipation.

Soon enough I saw Randy walking across the yard, the razor strop hanging from his right hand and a smile on his face.

"Very nice," he said, looking slowly around the shed. "The mirror is a nice touch." He laid the razor strop on the bench.

Without prompting I took Nicole's leather strap from the peg and offered it to Randy. He took it and pointed to the saddle trestle: "Take your pants down, boy, and bend over. You're going to get a good tanning." There was definitely a new authority in the persona he had adopted.

Quickly I turned my back, unbuckled my belt, and pulled my jeans down and off. Then I peeled my briefs down to my knees baring my backside. As I had done so many times for Nicole, I bent across the trestle, raising my bared buttocks for a strapping. I spread my feet apart for balance, braced my knees into the side of the trestle, and grabbed hold of the horizontal bar near the floor. The moment had come.

"Nicole has you well trained," Randy said, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror on the wall when I looked up. He took a place well behind me and a bit off to the side, The fly on his jeans still bulging prominently. "Now you're going to get a taste of the strap, young man," he added, playing the role. "But for such good cooperation, I am going to reduce your punishment to twenty strokes, ten with each. I expect you to take them like a man and to count each off aloud. A new experience for you."

He raised the strap over his shoulder and then cracked it full across both buns. "One, sir!" I responded loudly as the familiar, searing sting spread through my backside and I squeezed hard on the cross brace to keep from bolting upright. Still, I knew from long experience that Randy had not begun with full force and I expected there would be worse to come. But he was experienced, too, and realized the best way to extend the spanking was to begin slowly and lightly and then increase the severity. I opened my eyes just as he raised the strap a second time, hesitated briefly while taking aim, and then cracked it down full across both cheeks. "Two, sir!" The heat again spread out from the dark stripe left by the thick leather strap.

Nicole had had the strap specially made by a local leather craft shop. It was an inch wide, quarter inch thick, twenty inches long, and very supple. She had given it to me as a wedding present and had made good use of it since. Once a month I gave it a good oiling to keep it smooth and pliable.

Randy was taking his time and enjoying it. After a third and fourth stroke, he gingerly felt my seared buns, his hand cool on the hot crimson stripes left by the licking. A fifth and sixth cut were harder to take without raising up and then he whaled it across the backs of my legs. "Seven, sir!" I fairly squealed, my knuckles white on the bar. Pressing my stomach down on the trestle, I arched my back to thrust my scarlet buttocks out ever so slightly as an invitation--and to show my acceptance. The strategy worked and he let up noticeably as the last three crisscrossed my buns. Ten down and ten to go. This was easily as stiff a thrashing as any Nicole had ever dealt out.

Randy went over to the bench and changed to the razor strop he had brought. It was the kind you find in a barbershop, actually two straps--one leather and one canvas--with a handle on one end. The large lump still strained against his fly when he turned back from the bench.

"This is real, vintage Americana, isn't it?" he said, again taking a place behind and to the side of me. "Here we are out back in the woodshed and you're going to getting it, pants down, with the razor strop." Slowly he again ran his cool hand across the scorched skin, seeming to clear the field before the heat of the assault to come.

"Stand up, young man," he ordered. Somewhat confused after waiting with tense anticipation for the second dose of ten, I stood up, turned, and faced him.

"Just wanted to make sure you are still good and hard," he said, looking down at the stiff evidence. "Bend over," he said, pointing to the bench.

"Eleven, sir!" I responded to the first with the new strap. This was going to be a good bit easier than the first ten: there was no doubt which was the nastier of the two--Nicole's by far. I relaxed and made yet another effort to thrust my scalded cheeks up for more from Randy. Slowly and methodically he laid the last nine on as hard as he could but it was not difficult to take them without raising up.

"Twenty, sir!"

Randy laid the razor strop on the bench as I stood up and began to pull up my briefs. I turned and looked over my shoulder into the mirror and saw the deep red blotches on my ass cheeks crossed with darker ridges marking the edge of the strap. "Thank you for the licking!" I said out of the habit Nicole had instilled. "With all due respect, sir, Nicole's strap is the worst of the two--but there isn't much difference. Pat isn't getting shorted in any way--believe me!"

"All the same," Randy replied, "I think it might be nice to talk to your wife about a reciprocity agreement concerning you and Pat. I think it may be a nice alternative to send him over here on occasion so he appreciates the easier punishment he gets at home, let alone the special penalty of getting a spanking from a female."

When I finished dressing we headed back to the porch far more sober than we had been an hour earlier. I returned Nicole's strap to the cabinet in the garage and went back out on the deck to find Pat had joined Randy. Speechless and flushed, Pat was staring at the razor strop on the table among all the empty beer bottles.

"Pat's obviously wondering just how his embarrassing and kinky secret ended up on your table," Randy said as I walked toward the two of them. "So turn around and show him."

Not moving or speaking for almost a full minute, I glared at Randy. "Don't be shy," he said. This was going too far. Randy didn't even blink, but then he added an incentive: "Would you like another trip out to the shed right now?"

Slowly I turned my back to both, lowered my jeans and my briefs just enough to expose my crimson backside and bent forward so Pat would get a good view. Then I pulled my pants up and stood there not knowing what to say.

Pat broke the tense silence: " Welcome to the club!" Then he stood up, spun around, and briefly mooned me, revealing the residue from his visit to the basement the night before. The scarlet had disappeared but light thin marks were still clearly visible across both cheeks.

Randy stood up and took the razor strop from the table. "When Nicole returns from her trip you be sure to fill her in and then have her give me a call. We are going to negotiate a bilateral reciprocity agreement." Then Randy and Pat left -- rather quickly it seemed--for home. From the smirks the two exchanged on the way out of the drive it was not too difficult to guess why they were leaving so quickly.

After cleaning up the empties I sat down and began to contemplate the consequences of what had happened over the past hour and found myself apprehensive when I considered the possibilities. Even if I had wanted to call everything off I knew that would be difficult since Nicole would be back within an hour or two and the evidence of the afternoon's incident would be on my backside for at least a day or so. Besides, Randy had Pat for a corroborating witness if I denied the whole thing ever happened. There would be more hell to pay if I tried to hide it and got caught than if I took the initiative and laid it out for her. Nicole, I decided, would get a specially warm and loving reception when she returned from her trip. Then I would tell her.

She was due home in another hour or so. Quickly, I gave the house a cursory dust, vacuum, and pick- up. Then I put a bottle of Nicole's favorite wine to chill, selected some soft classical music, and headed for the shower. While I let the hot water sooth my abused backside, my prick began to rise once again as I contemplated the vision of myself down in Randy and Pat's basement, assuming the position for six with the cane while Nicole watched. Although I had never been caned, my perverse curiosity wanted to be satisfied since I had read so many books about that peculiar English style of punishment. It would be much like the willow switch Nicole had used on occasion, I thought. The soap foamed into a heavy lather as I took plenty of time washing my erection. The vision of the caning was soon replaced by one of me watching Nicole paddling Pat with her wooden ruler.

After a long, leisurely rinse, I turned the shower off and reached outside the steamed glass door for my towel. After groping for a few seconds I opened the door cursing my own forgetfulness. There was no towel in sight, so I stepped out into the hallway, dripping wet, to get one from the linen closet and found myself blocked by Nicole. She was standing there, my towel in her hand, her jacket still on, laughing. Shocked, I snatched the towel, spun around, and retreated into the warmer bathroom. Before I could close the door, she had followed me in and reached around from behind to grab my still stiff prick.

Nicole then took the towel and began to dry me. After leisurely patting my front dry from toes to face, she turned me round to do the back.

"I can't wait to hear your explanation for this," she whispered into my ear from behind as she patted my derriere with the towel. Her cold finger traced the few welts which still remained from my trip to the shed two hours earlier. "I am going to take my coat off, and you had better come up with something extraordinary by way of explaining when I get back here, young man!"

For the next hour I nuzzled, slurped, kissed, and sucked my way from her forehead to her feet and back up again as I related the afternoon's escapade in every detail. With both of us hot enough to explode into a mutual orgasm I knelt astride her and prepared to complete the lovin'. But Nicole pushed me off and sat up abruptly.

"Not yet," she said with emphasis. "I go out of town for one day and you end up in a licentious orgy with a gay neighbor and think you can just sweet talk your way through it!" She glared at me, her anger apparent. "I think Randy has a good idea, and I think I am about ready to run you over there: you're not getting off scot free for your self-indulgence." Silence.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied quietly, my eyes tracing the pattern in the bedpread.

Nicole pulled her robe around her and picked up the receiver on the phone next to the bed. She looked into the phonebook and then dialed. I knew what was coming.

"Pat," she cooed enthusiastically into the phone, "this is Nicole--is Randy there please?"

While waiting for Randy to come to the phone Nicole covered the mouthpiece and turned to me: "How would you like a little penance before we complete this? I have something in mind . . ." She returned to the phone. "Hi there, Randy, this is Nicole."

Nicole said nothing for several minutes, just listened with some intensity, a broad smile spreading across her face. All I got was the one side of this conversation: "Sure!", "I know what you mean!", "Sounds fine to me!" Then she said: "In fact, I am going to send him over in a few minutes and I want you to introduce him to the cane--'six of the best,' as they say in England, should suffice!" Another interlude; then Nicole hung up the phone.

"Well," she said happily, "you've always wondered what a caning would feel like and I have just secured that opportunity for you. Don't bother with your briefs since you would have to take them down anyway--just get your jeans and shirt on and get over there. Randy is waiting for you and will be happy to do the honors. When you get back, I will see what I can do to make you feel better," she laughed.

While Nicole watched with amusement, I pulled my jeans and shirt on, slipped into a pair of sandals, and headed out the door to meet Randy for the second time that day. "Good luck," she offered, sipping her wine. "And try not to be a baby," she added, smirking.

Pat answered my feeble knock on the front door and, from the look on his face, was in on what was about to take place. Dispensing with any chitchat, he said simply, "Randy is in the study awaiting your arrival--top of the stairs and down the hall on the right." Then he went back to the couch and his MTV.

Up the stairs, down the hallway I went, and when I came to the last room on the right, the door was open so I walked in. Randy sat in an office swivel chair behind a large wooden desk: in front of the desk was a leather covered ottoman.

"We meet yet again," he said. "Since you are new here I will explain how this is done." Randy stood up, came around the desk, and went to the bookcase. He took a thin cane from the bookshelf and pointed with it to the ottoman. "You kneel there and bend across the desk," he said as he closed the door behind me. The cane was about the thickness of a pencil, about thirty inches long, with a half circle handle on one end--much like the kind you see carnival game barkers use to illustrate their sales pitch. I knelt on the ottoman as directed and leaned forward across the desk. Instinctively my fingers took a grip on the far edge.

"There you have it," Randy said, "except it won't do to have your jeans in the way, will it? So you'll take your pants down." And down they came, baring my still smarting buttocks for the second time that day.

"Nicole says you've never been caned, but it is one of your long-treasured hopes. Correct?"

"Yes, sir," I replied quietly.

"Well, then, you will finally get your wish, with 'six of the best' as Nicole ordered. You need not count them out since I doubt we will lose track."

The hiss of the cane concluded with a quiet "ttthwuck" as it whistled into my backside. The rising tide of pain had not begun to peak before I heard a second hiss and another "ttthwuck." This was something else again! And Randy waited a good while before laying on a third cut. That third stroke brought me up instantly and my hands involuntarily shot back to massage my stripes.

"That," he announced, "will cost you a penalty! assume the position and this time you will remain bent over or you'll get a second penalty."

Quickly I again bent over the desk and heard the hiss of the cane. Then, after fifteen or twenty seconds, again. And finally, mercifully, a sixth and final time. But, cautioned, I remained in place.

"Very well done," Randy offered, "for a first time, especially! So well taken I am almost tempted to forego the penalty stroke, but I wouldn't want to cheat you of a full experience. Turn round now, and hold your hands out, palms up."

Somewhat clumsily, I turned round, still kneeling on the ottoman with my jeans tangled around my legs, my backside on fire, and an erection jutting out at full mast. I held out both hands, palms up.

Randy took a position next to me on the left, put his left hand under my hands and raised the cane to shoulder height. My eyes quickly shut before he could smack it down across my palms. It felt like a wasp had stung each hand and I shot off the ottoman and yanked my hands away, howling.

"Next time, you might remember to stay in place!"

Randy put the cane back on the bookshelf and opened the study door. After pulling my jeans in place, I looked ruefully at the thin red stripe across each palm and headed for the door.

"Forgetting our manners, aren't we?" Randy asked pointedly as I began to leave the study.

"Yes, sir." I replied. "Thank you, sir!"

"Much better. Now go on home to Nicole and tell her you have been a real courageous trouper. I'm sure she can make it feel much better for you."

Again I began to leave only to be called back.

"Oh, and there's one more thing, before you go," Randy added. I went back into the study and saw him open a cabinet door next to the bookcase. The shelves were filled with cables, switches, and electronic equipment. He punched a button on what appeared to be a vcr and handed me the video cassette which it ejected. "Nicole said she wanted to watch, so you may take this back to her and see a complete replay in brilliant, living color if you like. Slow motion, even, but the sound would be distorted."

I looked down to see the prominent bulge in Randy's jeans. And when I returned to the hallway Pat was standing there, a smile on his face and bulge in his jeans as well. "Always nice to have friendly neighbors," he smirked.

Cassette in hand I fled back home to seek the relief Nicole had promised: maybe next time Randy would do the honors.


More stories byThomas Hobbes