The solitary man wondered up and down the aisles of the antique plaza, his roving eye well disciplined to pass over the thousands of items which held no interest for him, constantly scanning for what might be the find of the day. Occasionally he lingered over a peculiarly shaped bit of wood, only to find that it was not at all what he was looking for.
Then, just when he was ready to call it a day, he turned a corner and his eyes glistened. There amidst a collection of walking sticks was a cane which had never been intended to support anyone. It was two feet long but pencil thin, and it could never have borne much weight. He could only really see the shape. Was it rattan? Was it in good condition? He had often wanted a decent British cane for his collection.
After glancing furtively up and down the aisle, he reached into the corner and drew out the cane. It was light as a feather, and it fit most comfortably into his hand, but as soon as he saw it more closely, he was disappointed. It wasn't rattan, after all. As he looked up and down its length, he could detect cracks in the surface. The wood was dry and likely brittle. He tentatively flexed it in his hands, and it seemed immediately on the verge of breaking. The man turned away in disgust. No more than another bamboo counterfeit.
While still stinging from disappointment, he spied a young mother with a recalcitrant young child in tow. The blonde brat was whining about something, undoubtedly bored and ready to leave off shopping. The man looked from a distance and admired the curves of the boy's chubby bottom, shown off by his tight khaki shorts. If only the cane were rattan; if only the boy were his son; if only... Fantasies were all he really had.
Out of pure habit he continued to wind through the aisles, covering every booth in the shop. That way he could mentally check this shop off and avoid any temptation to return, at least for a while. He was not really looking closely any longer, and he almost walked past what he was searching. Suddenly, something clicked in his brain. What was that he had just seen, there on the side in the last booth?
He stepped back for a second look. The paddle was an odd shape, and his accustomed eye had nearly missed it. It was nearly as long as the cane, but very thin. It was no more than two inches across, and the handle, which made up a third of the length, tapered to less then an inch. Something was printed on it in a foreign language he did not recognize. It appeared to be a verse of some sort, a few lines of cute poetry, no doubt. He had never seen a paddle anything like it. Their was no question of its purpose, though. The painting of a small boy bending over made it plain. This was a piece he simply had to have.
From across the store, he heard the little boy's whining growing louder. He could visualize the tight shorts stretched out as the boy bent over, just like the one in the picture. He picked up the paddle and gripped it in his hands. He would swing it just so...Oh, how wonderful! Perhaps the woman needed help. Perhaps if she saw him purchase the paddle, she might, just maybe, ask him? Maybe the shop had a back room, and he could take the little scoundrel by the hand and lead him back. Oh, he'd make him whine, all right, and squeal, too. But this, too, was fantasy. If that mother saw what he was holding she would most likely frown in disapproval. He quickly put the paddle down, but hovered near the stall, waiting for the shop to be clear. He could handle facing the cashier, after all, her shop was offering what he was buying. Another customer, though, was more than he could face.
He wondered at times like this why he tortured himself so. He couldn't even stand to be seen buying the paddle, lest anyone see his thoughts. How could he ever think that he would get to use it? He knew very well that he never would, that he would just hold it, finger it while he read stories on line, and then it would collect dust in the back of the closet with the rest of the collection.
Shortly the coast was clear, and he grabbed his purchase and strode purposefully to the counter. The middle aged woman eyed him apprehensively, but he stared her in the face as he paid her in cash. She wisely selected a large paper bag in which to wrap, or rather hide, his purchase. He left without a word, climbed into his jeep, and headed for home.
As he drove out of town into the country his mind was filled with visions of little, blonde chubby, ill tempered boys. First he was paddling them with his new paddle. Next he was lining up to swish them with the cane, or rather with the cane he had first imagined he had found. Soon the visions drifted, and he was pulling down khaki shorts and smacking round, bare bottoms. The trip had not been a total loss. In addition to the paddle, his fantasy life had taken a real turn for the better.
As he drove up the dirt lane to his farmhouse, though, visions were driven from his head. A child's bicycle lay twisted on the ground by the side porch. He grabbed his package, jumped out of the jeep, and examined the bike. Someone had taken a bad fall, and the bike needed repair, but it was clearly salvageable. He looked around for the owner of the bike and spotted him coming around the corner of the house.
This boy was as different from the antique shop urchin as night is from day. He was older, maybe nine. He was taller, and thin as a whip. His curly hair and wide eyes were dark, and his skin was tanned from the summer sun. he wore a navy blue polo shirt and khaki shorts no nearly as tight on his slender hips. He had no socks on under his dilapidated sneakers. He was walking with a limp, but the man suspected it was a sympathy limp.
"I was just...," he began, "I was...knocking on the front door." He was clearly uncertain how to proceed.
"I can see that," the man answered flatly. A plan was beginning to form in his mind. It was really too bad the boy had come on this day, while his blood was up.
"My bike...," the boy pointed unnecessarily. "I had a little bit of a fall."
"Are you hurt?"
The boy straitened up a bit, thought a moment, and promptly lost the limp. "No, not really. But my bike..." Again he trailed off as the man held his gaze.
"We can talk about you bike a bit later. First, I would like to discuss your trespass on my land."
Immediately the boy began talking. "I was just cutting down to the creek. You know there's a path their, and people bike it all the time. I was just cutting down."
The man smiled slightly. "I know that path. I walk it every day. It has a beginning, and an end. Neither is on my property."
The boy laughed nervously. "But, you see, it's a long way around by the road, and I just wanted to cut through, and then, well, I was going fast, and my bike, you know, it just sort of went sideways."
"Why were you riding so fast?"
The boy looked down and tried to think up a good answer for that one.
"Could it be that you saw the 'No Trespassing' sign at the front of my lane? Or perhaps you are familiar with that sign, and are in the habit of rushing past the house so you won't be seen?"
"But, I'm only on a bike..."
This time, the man did not let him finish. "Yes, a bike. Only a bike. And why do you think I put up the sign? Bike tracks across my yard, even into my strawberries, and others tracking mud from the creek into my lane."
"I never rode over any strawberries!" the boy insisted forcefully.
"But you did disregard my sign, and you did trespass on my property."
The boy was clearly distressed. This was going as poorly as he had feared. He decided to try contrition. "I'm really sorry, sir. I didn't mean to."
Again the man smiled. He just might pull this off. "Of course you meant to. That's why you were riding so fast, isn't it."
The boy nodded wordlessly, his eyes on the ground.
"Alright. Come in with me. I want to be certain you aren't hurt, and then we need to discuss this further. Then we can see about your bike."
He unlocked the side door and led the boy into his kitchen, directing him to sit on a stool by the counter. He retrieved a first aid kit from the medicine chest in the adjoining powder room and began to examine the boy. Both were quiet. The boy had several small cuts on his hands and forearms. To these the man gently applied antiseptic. He looked the boy over very carefully. He was really a beautiful kid. He wondered how often he had crossed the property unnoticed. Returning the kit to its place, the man at last spoke.
"What is your parent's phone number?" He reached for the phone on the wall.
"Wha...What are you going to do." The boy had grown calm and trusting, but that was quickly shattered.
"I'm going to call them to get you, and your bike, off my land."
"But they'll kill me!" the boy whined. "That bike is new, and if they see it like that, and then you say, you tell them I was here..." Tears were welling up in his beautiful dark eyes, and he struggled manfully to keep both his composure and his dignity. "Please, sir!"
Sir. That was good. This was going to work. "Look, I'm sorry," said the man, "It's awful being the one who gets caught, but you were on my land, and I just can't keep putting up with this. I need to start putting my foot down. I know you'll be punished, which is too bad, but, after all, it is fair, isn't it? You shouldn't have ignored my sign."
"But, but you don't understand! The bike, and...he'll kill me!"
"Listen, I don't care about the bike, but the trespassing is serious, and you need to be punished." The man took a deep breath. If he was going to try this, now was the time. "Would you rather I punished you? It is my land, after all."
The boy was instantly wary. "What would you do to me?"
"Well, I would have to give you a paddling. That is what you would get at home, isn't it.?"
The boy nodded, then looked away. This seemed like too much. He saw the man reaching for the phone again, and his head snapped up.
The man let his fingers rest on the receiver. "You know, I got a pretty good look at that bike of yours. I think I could fix it. But I can't let the trespassing go."
That decided it. The boy whispered, "OK," and looked shyly down at the floor.
The man came around the counter and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. He squeezed him as reassuringly as he could. Then he stepped to the table and picked up his package, unwrapping the newest of his paddles. It didn't ever seem to occur to the boy that it was a little odd for him, a man who clearly lived alone, to have come home that day with a paddle wrapped up in a paper bag. He was expecting a paddle to make an appearance, and it didn't much matter to him how it got there.
The man pulled out a chair from the table and pointed to it. "Bend over and grab the seat," he instructed.
The boy drew a deep breath, then climbed off the stool and walked to the chair. When he bent down to grab the seat his shirt tail rode part of the way up his bottom. The man took hold of it and pulled it up over his back. Now that the khakis were stretched a little tighter, the man could see that this bottom was much cuter than that of the brat at the shop. The boy's tiny waste made his bottom stick out in this position, and while thin, the bottom was amply defined. Besides, while he would no doubt have enjoyed the chance to teach that other imp a lesson, there was something even more appealing about spanking a boy as polite, even as sweet, as this one.
The man had to control the trembling in his hand as he touched the thin paddle to the boy's bottom. His mind kept crying out to him that this couldn't actually be happening. He got control of himself, then drew back his hand and gave a tentative whack. The boy let out his breath sharply, and the man knew that swat had stung a bit, but not like the boy expected. It had felt good to the man, though. He drew the paddle back further, and this time he really let loose. Now the boy was surprised again, but in another way. He let out a startled yelp, and tears began to flow down his face. That one had felt wonderful to the man. Better than he had imagined. Again he cracked the paddle across the pretty target before him, and again he heard a squeal of pain. The boy was still trying not to cry out loud, so he would have to redouble his efforts. It seemed to him that with so light a paddle he could afford to really cut loose. After two more vicious swats the boy was crying continuously. After two more, he began to cry out for the man to stop. That was seven, the man calculated as he rested the paddle once more on the boy's now trembling bottom. One more. The last crack was the hardest, and the boy rocked forward and tired again to choke back a cry of pain.
Laying down the paddle, the man took the boy's arm and drew him up again. He wondered what he should do next, and decided to squeeze the shoulder again. To his surprise, the boy stepped in and hugged him. He tentatively took him into his arms and let the kid cry himself out against his chest. He had never really fantasized about what comes after a spanking, but now the man was realizing the more tender enjoyments of discipline.
After a few moments the boy stepped back and gingerly touched his bottom with both hands. The man smiled down at him, and suddenly he smiled back through his tears and began to rub vigorously.
"So," the man broke the silence, "am I a good paddler?"
"Oh yes, sir," the boy said with true admiration, "that hurt real good."
A few moments later the two were standing over the bike at the workbench in the barn. The boy leaned against the man as he worked, seeming now to desire his presence and his touch. Soon the wheel was straitened out and the chain threaded through the gears again. The man wheeled the bike out into the sun.
"Listen," he said to the boy, "you've acted like a man here today, taking your punishment. I admire that. If you want to use my lane as a cutoff, that's fine, but stay on the lane, and don't ride over my lawn."
"Thanks!" the boy answered.
"And stop in and see me sometimes. Don't act like you have to rush by every time."
"Sure! I would like that."
"Tell your friends that if they want to use the lane, they have to come to the house and ask. But if I catch them rushing over my yard, well, you know what they have coming, don't you!"
The boy laughed out loud at that. "I'll tell them. Don't worry."
"Now, are you going to be OK on that bike seat?" He slapped the boy's rump playfully.
Again the little fellow laughed. "I'll be alright," he said as he rubbed his bottom again for show. And indeed, he hopped on his bike and started off down the lane, turning to wave as he laughed one more time.
Back in the house, the man carried his new paddle into the study and switched on his computer. There were close to thirty other paddles in his back closet, in all shapes and sizes. He found that he thought of them now in a new light. Perhaps, just perhaps, they would do something more than collect dust, after all.