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Ian and Jeremy
My roommate is Ian. I hadn’t met him before we were assigned to room together, but I was glad to become acquainted. He was nice. A little shy -- sort of passive -- never took the initiative. Easy to get along with. I figured I could get away with anything with him.
He’s very slender; only about a hundred and thirty pounds, but, as he explained to me one morning when he took off his shirt to show ripped abs and muscular arms, “I was always shy and I got pushed around a lot, so my dad made me go out for wrestling. It was interesting and fun, so I did what Coach said and I got good at it. I was state champion my senior year.”
I’d been using a lot of the F-word up to then. It came from working on a waterfront -- not for nothing is it called salty language. One morning at breakfast, which we had taken to eating together, he asked me to stop doing it, and said it botherted him. “I’m trying to keep my mind clean,” he said. “I influence a lot of younger kids.”
“Yeah? What are you F-ing going to do about it?” I said.
“I don’t know. I guess I could spank you with a paddle.”
“Yeah, right. You and F-ing who's army? ”
“Yeah. With your pants down, I should think.”
The next morning, when I was still asleep, he came over and sat on my bed, waking me up. Groggily, I realized that he was holding a smallish fraternity-style paddle that seemed to be drilled full of half-inch holes. “You gonna get right over it like a good boy, or are we gonna do this the hard way?” he asked.
“F you, Ian.” I said. “I don’t have time for this spit.” He yanked the covers back, grabbed my right wrist, twisted my arm behind my back, and pulled the arm up, causing pain. Then he held my arm there with his left hand, grabbed my left thigh,and jammed his right knee under my place-where-you-go-over-it. Every time I tried to do something about it he pushed up on the arm behind my back. “You’re being a bad boy, Jeremy,” he said. He yanked my tighty-whities down over my behind and started spanking! me! firmly! and! hard!, I am talking expert!, with wrist-action!
“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!” I finally said.
“You gonna stop using those filthy words in here?” he asked.
“No!...........Yes! Fine. I’ll stop”
“You better, or next time you get a harder one.” He slapped me once more, with his hand. Ouch! Then he walked over to his side of the room and started getting dressed. “Don’t forget to say your prayers, Jeremy,” he said cheerfully.
I figured, what the heck, I should say them anyway, so I did. After I cleaned up I got a bowl of cereal and sat down at the table. Ian was already eating. “You don’t think I’m a little old for that?” I asked in a reasonable, adult tone.
“No, I don’t. I still get them.”
“What -- from your Dad?”
“From both of them.”
“That’s amazing. You have to what -- bend over?”
“Get over the arm of a stuffed armchair, usually. But my dad’s real strong. He can grab the back of my belt and lift me right up over his knee.
“Well, when are they gonna stop doing it? You’re nineteen now, right?”
“Eighteen still. My dad says, as long as I live there.”
“Even after you’re twenty-one?”
“Yeah. I’m OK with it. I’m gonna raise my own kids the same way. I always feel real secure and self-confident. Anyway, I'm gonna hang the paddle on the wall over there, to remind you to watch your language."
“Yes sir."
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