This is a continuation of a story called "Interstate Voyeur", previously published on this same site. Response to "Interstate Voyeur" has been somewhat overwhelming, and I appreciate the large doses of encouragement. As always, feedback and criticism are appreciated at bunzafire@yahoo. com
The sudden winking of the signal light on the minivan jolted me into wakefulness. The van slowed in preparation to exit the highway; the sign announced the town of Dalton, and I knew I was near the Tennessee line. I was due in Nashville in three days, so in a quick decision I decided that I could spend a few more minutes spying on my "family for the day."
Keeping a discrete distance, I watched the van pull into the parking lot of the Comfort Inn. The place was nearly deserted, with almost no cars in the lot. The father, awake now, walked into the lobby while the mother and son waited just outside. When he emerged, I followed them to see that they were staying in room 114, conveniently located on the first floor. I grinned a bit as I noticed how stiffly and carefully Mark was walking as he made his way from the van through the open door. As he passed, I got a good look at his young face, and I saw sullen anger, a smouldering fire of pent-up teenage frustration.
The door closed and they were inside. Hurrying back to the lobby, I checked in, asking for a ground floor room on the west side, near the front lobby. My luck held as I was given a key to room 116, right next to 114. I drove my car to the space right in front of the room, just beside the minivan of my adopted family. As I had no intention of staying very long, I took nothing with me inside, except my portable tape recorder and one other thing that I pulled from the trunk, hiding it carefully as I walked the short distance to my room.
The snap of the light illuminated a crisp, clean, cheap room. Hurrying across the room, I sat on the edge of the bed near the wall that my room shared with 114, closing my eyes to concentrate on the ambient noise. Muffled noises from the next room told me two important things: (1) The sound insulation from room to room was quite good - unexpectedly so for such spartan accommodations; and (2) my "family" was still in the next room.
Trying to remain quiet, I opened the small case and unpacked my toy. Bought from a scientific supply shop, this toy was the ultimate in audio surveillance - a highly sensitive directional microphone with ultra-sensitive amplifying headphones. It cost dearly, but well worth the price for one who understands its potential application.
Placing the headphones on my ears, I turned the instrument on low gain and pointed the small satellite-dish antenna toward the wall. Small adjustments later and.....
"...to the hotel restaurant for dinner. It's always pretty good, and we don't have to go back out again." I recognized the father's voice. The sound through the headphones was amazingly good, but there was a slightly fuzzy, metallic sound that made it just a little odd.
"Allright. Let me step into the bathroom and I'll be ready." A woman's voice this time, strong and confident. There were a few minutes of silence, then
"You ready, Mark?" Another few moments of silence, follwed by
"I'm not hungry. You guys go ahead...I'll just stay here." His youthful voice was very close, suggesting that he was on the bed just next to me through the wall.
"Suit yourself. Want us to bring anything back?"
"Maybe a burger, if they have one."
A loud flushing sound made me gasp, then when I could hear the voices again the man was speaking.
"Mark says he's not going. We'll bring him something back."
"Ok, honey.....We'll see you later." A few seconds later and they were gone. I took off the headphones and walked over to the window, watching as they disappeared from sight. Hurrying back, I slipped the headphones on in time to hear footsteps from the other room. Mark was headed for the bathroom - he stayed only for a second, then came straight back toward the bed. I heard several unidentified rustling sounds, followed by the unmistakable sound of a zipper. He was getting undressed.
Closing my eyes, I imagined the naked youth in the next room, and I wondered what he was going to do. A few seconds later I had my answer. There was a slurpy, sucking sound, followed by a slight gasping. I realized that he was masturbating. My mind's image changed to show the naked boy with his tool in hand, eyes closed, thinking of his favorite girl (or, dare I hope, boy!).
His pace was slow but quickening, his strokes even and fairly gentle. Soon enough, however, the sounds became more frantic. His pace increased, and his gasps became full-scale moans of delight. A regular and rhythmic creaking of the mattress testified to his rapidly increasing pace. I could tell he was nearing orgasm when suddenly everything stopped - there was no sound from the next room except his rapid breathing.
I had just started to wonder if I had missed the finale when the noises started again. I realized that he had stopped to delay his orgasm. After about thirty seconds he started up again; this time he started rather fast and aggressively and in only 30 seconds he was gasping and stroking hard, the bed creaking in response. After 45 seconds he stopped again, his breathing fast and ragged but slowing as he waited. After a full two minutes, he resumed, this time very fast and hard. The slurping sound was louder and wetter now, and I realized that he had loaded up on lubricant during the last pause.
The creaking of the bed was so loud now it was masking all the sounds except his gasps. Louder and louder in time with the creaks. then suddenly he was giving voice to his delight. "Oh ... ah ... ah .... ah .... yeah ... oh ... Oh my god ... yes ... yes ... YES ... OH!" Suddenly the slurping sound became impossibly fast and the creaking stopped. His voice was caught in an extended moan, loud but unintelligible. I knew then that he was coming. His orgasm, like those of most 17-year olds, was long and hard. He stroked for another solid minute, scarcely breathing, but moaning urgently.
Then, suddenly, it was over. His breathing was very fast and ragged, but there was no more creaking, and the sounds of his hand on his tool had ceased.
The sound of keys in the door broke my concentration and I realized, at about the same time Mark did, that one or both of his parents had returned. His barely audible "Oh _s_h_i_t_!" was followed by his father's voice.
"Oh my God. What the hell are you doing? Jesus, Mark, in our bed? Get in the bathroom and get cleaned up. Good God, what were you thinking? What if your mother had come back with me?"
The sound of running water confirmed that Mark was getting himself cleaned up. I could hear his father mumbling to himself. Shortly the water sounds stopped, followed again by footsteps.
"I don't know what's gotten into you, son. I can't believe you'd do this, especially after that thrashing I gave you earlier. I guess I'm just not getting through to you." There was a pause, during which the boy said nothing.
"Well, by God, I'm gonna get through to you now, young man. Sit down on that bed and don't take that towel off." My mental image shifted abruptly to show an embarassed young man clad only in a towel, sitting at the foot of the bed.
The older man stamped off toward the door and I heard it slam as he hurried into the parking lot. Removing the headphones, I crossed the room and peeked out. I could just make him out - he had crossed the parking lot to the small stand of trees on the other side. I couldn't make out what he was doing, but a few seconds later he was strolling across the parking lot carrying in his hand a branch from a tree.
I gasped as I saw the weapon - it was about four feet long. At its base it looked to be as thick as a man's index finger. He had stripped the smaller limbs off, and it was so flexible that the end of it was dragging the road in front of him. There was malice and purpose on his stride.
I hurried across the room and quickly donned my headphones, just in time to hear him come through the door.
I could only imagine the look on the boy's face as his father came into the room. The panic was clear in his voice, however.
"No! Dad, no!"
"Mark, I was seventeen once. I know that you need to do that. I really don't care that you do, or even how often you do. What I won't abide is your careless indifference. You know it would have killed your mother to see you like that. And I'm going to teach you some discretion."
There was a pause. "Now drop that towel and bend over the bed."
"Dad, no! You can't do this...not after this afternoon..please!"
"I'm sorry, Mark, but you should have thought of that earlier. Drop the towel and bend over."
"No, dad! Please! Not now...not..."
"Mark, either drop that towel and bend over or I'll strip it off you, bend you over and hold you. Please don't make me do that."
"No...I can't...Dad...NO!"
This last was accompanied by a swift rustling sound as the towel was torn from his body. There was a brief struggle, followed by the sound of a heavy weight straining the bed.
"Ow! Dad, you're hurting my neck! No....please...!"
"Hold still, and I'll not hurt you son, at least not that way. It's just my hand on your neck. But I'm going to make sure that you don't get up out of that position."
There was a moment of silence which during which I imagined the man testing the heft and balance of the switch and imagined rather than heard the swish swish as he flexed it. "I can still see marks from this afternoon, so this is really gonna hurt, Mark."
The quiet was shattered by a loud "WHICK!" as the switch struck the boy's butt. Maybe a full half-second passed before the "Aiiiii!" from the boy. From this moment forward the boy never ceased crying and screaming for mercy. His father settled into a comfortable rhythm of one stroke every five seconds. WHICK! WHICK! WHICK! WHICK! WHICK! ...
Mark was crying and screaming, able to form words at first, begging his father to stop, but later lapsing into strangled and completely unintelligible screams of anguish and pain.
WHICK! WHICK! WHICK! WHICK! The assault continued. I could hear the bed creak like it had when the boy was masturbating, but this was the sound of struggle. The boy was fighting his father, trying desperately to stand up, to get away from that awful pain.
I could scarecely imagine the pain that the switch must be inflicting on the already smarting buttocks. His screams of pain testified to the efficacy of his punishment. The relentless beating continued. WHICK! WHICK! WHICK! Mark was screaming incoherently now, but the sounds of his struggles had ceased. WHICK! WHICK!
"Now get up, get dressed, and don't make me do this again.!" A few seconds later the door slammed, leaving the boy alone in the room. For the next couple of minutes he wept, then I heard him make his way to the bathroom. I knew after a beating like he'd just taken he wouldn't be going anywhere, so I'd have a more than moderate chance to have my last laugh in this little adventure.
Carefully packing up my little toy, I made my way over to the door of my room, stepped outside, locked the door, the eased my way over to the door marked 114. A quick look up and down the breezeway confirmed that no one was looking. I left something at the door, then climbed into my car and drove to the lobby.
The clerk was a bit surprised to see me checking out so soon, but a mumbled "family emergency" seemed to satisfy him, and a few minutes later I was back on the 75, headed for Tennessee. Over and over I invented the scene in my mind - Mark's father and mother returning from dinner to find the cassette tape at the door; popping it into a player to hear the recording of Mark's rest-stop whipping; their initial shock at someone having taped it, followed by anger when they hear their little boy call his father a "miserable _f_u_c_k_ing bastard".
I knew I had a great fantasy that I could call on for weeks - did Mark get his fourth spanking for the day?
I'm good for a while.