ALAN’S EXCHANGE

Author: Alan Paul alan@quest-net.com       

Alan was still smouldering over his treatment at the hands of several guys belonging to the Masonic Lodge several weeks after he’d been unwillingly and embarrassingly paddled bare-ass right out on the street as part of their fund-raising project.  Kids were still pestering him about it when he got home each night, and the smirks and grins he was getting from everyone in town were just too much. 

He had to move.  But that meant breaking the lease on his present apartment and forfeiting his deposit.  He simply didn’t have enough money to do that and pay a new security deposit and a month’s rent in advance besides.  It meant he’d need at least a thousand dollars more than he had available.

Alan made good money.  He’d put most of it into securities, however, and he was loath to turn them back into cash.  He was a male model, with the kind of great good looks everybody expected to see in ads, even though he was short.  He could almost have been a stand-in for a young Matthew Broderick.  In addition to having a cute face, he was well built and muscular from working out regularly, with that inverted pyramid type body – broad shoulders, tiny waist - and a bubble butt that stuck out provocatively in whatever he was wearing.

The only trouble was his mouth.  He could never seem to stop bragging – either about himself and his accomplishments or the famous people he pretended to have known when he lived out west.  He’d stopped briefly when he’d moved to Eastwick, but thought it safe to name-drop again – even though his snotty name-dropping had gotten him in deep shit up in Maine.  Now the same thing had happened to him here.  He flushed red to his ears every time he thought of it. 

Alan perused ads in the Boston papers and finally found what he wanted – an apartment at a nice address over in Cambridge.  He could easily afford the monthly rent, but getting enough for the initial cash requirement was another story.  What to do?  He didn’t want another bank loan.  He also didn’t want to add any more to his credit cards – he was already at the max on two of them from the fancy clothes he couldn’t resist, and perilously close to the max on the other one.

He had to leave town.  He couldn’t take any more snide remarks from the people in Eastwick, and it seemed like most of them had either seen his bare ass or enthusiastically participated in paddling it.  He thought and thought during every spare moment – while he was showering in the morning, during breaks at work jobs, while he was eating and before he went to sleep at night.  He couldn’t come up with anything except selling his securities.

Then one day – almost a month after that debacle when they’d taken off his pants and pulled down his undershorts for paddling – he saw an item in the local paper about Mrs. Stockwell.

Mrs. Elvira Stockwell was evidently one of the wealthiest people in the entire Boston area; she’d donated to museums, orchestras. schools, orphanages and just about every charity or non-profit organization you could name.  Now her picture was once more in the paper for creating a trust fund or something for emerging artists, and the photo showed the head of that trust receiving a generous check.

Well.  If the lady was so filthy rich she could afford to throw away her money and get tax breaks on every little cause, surely she could fork over a measly thousand to someone who really needed it?  Someone who was not only presentable but talented – someone who had hobnobbed with really famous, important people, maybe?

Alan folded up the paper.  Mrs. Stockwell lived right here in Eastwick.  It was certainly worth a try.

Mrs. Stockwell’s phone number was unlisted.  But Alan had her address, so he sent her a letter, outlining what he needed and also what he felt were his qualifications.  The following week he had a reply from her social secretary, giving him an appointment to see Mrs. Stockwell on the approaching Friday, November 17^th at 4:00 PM.

That suited Alan fine.  The time was perfect – early enough for him to get there after his photo shoot that day, and long enough before dinner so he’d still be dressed up.  He always wore a suit to and from work, even though he was often required to change into something less formal once he got there.

On the appointed Friday, Alan rang the bell on Mrs. Stockwell’s front door at exactly 4:00 PM.  The mansion in which she lived was in the hills on the edge of town, and he’d had to pass through wrought iron gates (visions of Bel Air back in California!) after announcing himself at the speaker embedded in the brick posts.  He’d parked his Toyota on the gravel turn-around, which boasted a fountain in the center – currently turned off for the winter.

A maid opened the door.  She was complete in an old-fashioned maid’s uniform, even – black dress with white collar and cuffs, and a white thingy like a coronet on her head.  Alan was impressed.

“You’re Mr. Carter?”

“Yes.  I have an appointment to see Mrs. Stockwell.”

“Come in.”  She closed the big, oak-panelled door behind him.  “This way, please.”

The maid led Alan down what looked like a baronial hallway, tiled with black and white marble, with a gilded Louis XIV table bearing fresh chrysanthemums and mail, painted portraits of austere-looking gentlemen and ladies in the 17 and 1800’s, past a sweeping, curved wide stairway to the upper floors (with gilded ironwork under the banister), and finally stopped at a closed doorway on the right with fluted columns on either side.  

The maid opened the door.

“Mr. Carter,” she announced, stepping back so Alan could enter.  When he’d crossed the threshold, she disappeared, closing the door behind her.

It was a drawing room, Alan supposed.  At least, it looked like what he’d always imagined a drawing room should look like.  It was huge and high, with ceilings over nine feet and a chandelier in the center dripping crystals.  Carved mouldings covered the break between wall and ceiling.  In the brief glance he allowed himself before his eyes came to rest on the familiar female figure behind an ornate desk, he saw an elaborate fireplace, mirrors, fancy furniture, and paintings which included what was evidently a genuine Cézanne.

Mrs. Stockwell rose from behind the desk and extended her hand.  “Mr. Carter?” 

She was taller than he, at least five-eight, with a matronly, motherly figure (read overweight).  She must have been in her sixties.  Her hair, impeccably coiffed, was pure white.  She was wearing a blue dress and there were diamonds at her throat.  She wore silver-rimmed glasses over a wide, Nordic face with blue eyes, but the only wrinkles Alan noticed were the lines from her nose to the corners of her mouth, presently extended in a smile.

“Yes.  That’s me.”  Alan crossed the Persian carpet and held the cool fingers briefly in his own.  “You received my letter?”

“Of course.  That’s why you’re here.”  She indicated a brocaded apricot silk armchair near the desk.  “Please – sit down.”

She subsided once again at the desk – a small French writing desk with inlaid wood and painted pictures in ovals.  Alan sat in the armchair.  Mrs. Stockwell picked up a paper Alan recognized as his letter and glanced at it.

“You want me to give you a thousand dollars.”

Alan squirmed a little.  She was certainly blunt.

“I’d be able to pay it back in time,” he managed.

She lay the paper back on her desk and looked at him.  “It’s not that, necessarily.  When I donate money I usually have the satisfaction of knowing I’m getting something in return, even if it’s merely the pleasure of realizing I’ve helped someone - or something I feel needs my financial support.  But with you – well, frankly, you don’t seem to be poor, and the type of thing you do doesn’t really fit my requirements for help.”

He squirmed some more.  Good God, had she let him come here just to tell him no?  He eventually found his voice:

“I know it’s not a usual request, Mrs. Stockwell, but I do need to move – I’m being sort of hassled by some people in this town – kids as well as adults – and it’s getting embarrassing – “

 “Ah.”  She folded her hands together and smiled again.  “You’re referring to your public participation in a fund-raising event. You – ah – assisted the Masons in town to raise some money.”

Jesus!  She knew about it!

Alan blushed.  “Well, yes.”

“And the townspeople haven’t permitted you to forget your – ah – rather generous contribution.”

He nodded and shifted once more in the chair, still red  “Yeah.”

Mrs. Stockwell said nothing, merely observing him over a faint smile for what seemed an eternity before she spoke again.  At last she opened her mouth once more.

“You’re a very handsome young man, Mr. Carter.  The kind of young man I wish I’d had for a son, but my husband died before we were able to have any children.”

“I’m – I’m sorry...”

“No need to be.  From what I’ve heard, however, your personality is not the same as what I would expect from a son of mine.  You evidently lack discipline and tend to brag – all traits which invariably brought you to the situation with the Masons, no doubt.”

“But!  But Mrs. Stockwell, I only mentioned a few of the people I knew when I lived in the Los Angeles area, and – “

She interrupted him with a dismissing wave of her hand.

“I have a number of friends in town, Mr. Carter.  Also a number of business associates, your agent among them.  It was fairly easy to accumulate a complete file on you and your activities, as well as your personal profile.”  She glanced down at a folder on her desk.  “I know, for instance, why you left Maine, and I’m also aware of the circumstances behind your desire to leave Eastwick.”  She looked up at him, and Alan felt as if the blue eyes had gone cold.

He felt the flush on his face grow deeper.  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“However.  There may indeed be a solution where I will give you the money you want.  And notice I said ‘give’ – meaning I will not expect repayment.”

          He swallowed.  “What – what’s the solution, then?”

          Mrs. Stockwell sat back in her chair, clasping her manicured hands together in her lap.  She smiled at him.

          “I was out of town when the Masons put on their little exhibition with you,” she said.  “But of course I heard about it as soon as I returned.”  She leaned forward.  “I was very sorry to have missed it.”

          Alan could hardly believe his ears.

          “You deserved being paddled, of course.  And if you were actually my own son, you’d also get a sound spanking from me, no matter how old you were or how intelligent, or how important...”

          Alan rose, shaking, to his feet.  He didn’t know what she was getting at, but he was sure he didn’t want to hear it.

          “Sit down.”  It was a command.

          Alan sat.

          “I said I don’t like to donate money without receiving something in return.  I don’t want or expect you to pay back my thousand dollars, but to get it, you’d have to submit to a spanking.  I would give it to you as a mother.  I only want to help you become more like the son I never had, you see.  And I don’t tolerate bragging or over-confidence.”

          His mouth dropped open again.  He was aghast.  “You – you want to spank me?”

          She nodded.

          “NOW?”

          “Oh no!  Of course not.  We can set a convenient time for some evening – and I’ll have a check ready to hand you as soon as it’s over.”

          A thousand dollars.  And all if he let this old lady give him a few whacks on the seat of his pants.  Well, why not?  Then he could get out of this town for good.  Even if she told her friends about it – so what?  He’d be long gone.  It couldn’t be any worse than what they’d already done to him – and that was right out in public – right out where everybody could see!  This at least would be private.

          “OK,” he said.  “I’ll do it.”

          Mrs. Stockwell smiled and unclasped her hands.  “Good.”  She sat forward again and riffled through a notebook.  “When?  I suppose you want the money as soon as possible.  Shall we say next Tuesday night at eight-thirty?”

          Alan swallowed and nodded.  “All right.”

          They both stood up and Mrs. Stockwell extended her hand again.  He took it and they shook.  The agreement was made.

          The maid appeared as if by magic, and led him back to the front door.  He climbed into his car and left, his mind whirring.  He’d call the rental people right away.  He could move! 

          Three brats were waiting for him outside the door to his building.

          “When’re yuh gonna take yer pants off again, Mister?”

          “Yuh gonna show us yer bare ass?”

          “When yuh gonna git paddled next?  Huh?  Huh?”

          Alan brushed by them impatiently without replying.

          Tuesday evening Alan drove his car once again to the Stockwell mansion.  He’d dressed carefully but casually for the occasion:  Heavy-weight jeans, a checked flannel shirt and cowboy boots.  No sense in wrinkling a good suit; and this way his ass was well padded.  When he arrived he was surprised to find several other cars parked in the turn-around – all more expensive makes and models than his.  Deciding they must belong to business associates or relatives staying somewhere in the huge house he gave them no more than a passing thought.

          The same maid let him in.  This time she took him to another door –

one on the left-hand side of the hall, but with the same imposing columns on both sides.  But when she opened the door, Alan got a shock.

          His appearance was met by nine pair of female eyes.

          Eight other women beside Mrs. Stockwell sat around the room – some in easy chairs, some on the couch, some on the love seat – all arranged in a circle.  Mrs. Stockwell herself sat in an armless straight chair.  They were all older women – motherly types – and the youngest of them must have been at least close to fifty.  They were all wearing dresses.  They all wore jewelry.  And every head was turned toward him expectantly.

          He hardly noticed the room itself – he got the impression it was a library, since most of the wall space was covered with shelves of books and dark panelling.  The maid was closing the door behind him, effectively pushing him further into the room.  He looked a little wildly at Mrs. Stockwell.

          “I – I thought – “

          Mrs. Stockwell smiled.  “Yes, Mr. Carter?”

          “Is our – uh – agreement going to be completed somewhere else?”

          “Oh no, Mr. Carter.  There was no stipulation of privacy, if that’s what you mean.”

          “But – but – “

          “These ladies here all missed seeing your demonstration with the Masons, like myself.  Now Alan – may I call you Alan? – we’re all most anxious to remedy that loss.  Please come here.”  She leaned over and picked up a stout wooden hairbrush with a flat back from the floor beside her chair.

          Alan began to feel prickly all over.

          “But - !”

          “The check is signed and ready.”  She indicated a large mahogany desk in the corner.  “You’ll have it as soon as we finish here.”

          “But – but can’t we – “

          “Let’s not delay any further.  Please come over here, Alan.  I’ll take you over my knee, of course – just the way I’d do it if you were actually my son.”

          Alan swallowed painfully, then slowly entered the ring of staring, smirking women and stood next to Mrs. Stockwell, ready to put himself across her lap.

          She motioned with the hairbrush.  “Take your trousers down.”

          Alan gasped. 

She wanted him to drop his jeans – right there in front of everybody!  And that meant he wouldn’t have much protection from that hairbrush, either!

“Can’t you – can’t you just – “

“A spanking never does much good unless it’s delivered directly to the bare buttocks.  The Masonic paddling was a huge success, I heard - because it was done exactly that way.  Take your jeans down, Alan.”

Blushing furiously, Alan opened his belt.  He unfastened the top of his jeans, then pulled down the zipper.  The jeans slid to his knees, leaving him standing there in his flannel shirt-tails and little white jockey shorts.  He began to feel about eight years old.

“Now pull down your underpants.”

One of the onlookers gave what sounded like a snicker.  By now Alan’s face was rosy red.  He reached up under his shirt-tails and pulled down his undershorts, bending over to do it until they joined his jeans, then he stood straight again, nervously crossing his hands in front of his shirt to hide his penis and balls.

“Fine.  Now get over my knee, young man.” 

Mrs. Stockwell lifted both her hands and Alan fell forward across her lap, his hands touching the floor in front of him.  She wasted no time.  His flannel shirt-tail was yanked up, exposing his bare bottom.  Out of the corner of his eye, Alan saw some of the ladies lean forward for a better view.

After that, the rest became a blur of pain and humiliation, peppered with acid female comments...

‘SMACK!’

The hairbrush landed smartly against his right ass cheek.  Alan grunted.

“UH!”

‘SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!’

“OOW!”

Mrs. Stockwell’s hairbrush was now stinging his behind with regular whacks – first on one side then the other, and sometimes in the very center of his butt –

‘SMACK!  SMACK-WHACK-CRACK-SMACK-SMACK!

“OOOW!  OW!  OH!”

Alan began to squirm.

‘WHACK!  WHACK!  SMACK! SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!’

“AAAAH!  OW!  OOOOW!”

The hairbrush was really smarting!  Alan began to hump and kick.  He thought he heard a giggle, but he’d squinched his eyes shut to avoid the embarrassment of seeing all those women watching his disgrace...

“I think you need to be taught a lesson, Alan.”  That was Mrs. Stockwell, although she never stopped the steady descent of her hairbrush on his bare, reddening behind.  “If you were really my son I’d never allow you to brag – regardless of how many famous people you knew – “

‘SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!’

“OOOOH!  OOOW!  OOW!”

“I would have thought being paddled in public would make you think twice before you started bragging again – but your letter showed me you hadn’t learned a thing – “

‘WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!’

“OOOOW!  I’M SORRY!  I’m SORRY, MRS. STOCKWELL!

AAAAAH!  OOOOW!  HONEST!”

          “You certainly should be sorry!  But I want you to be more than just sorry – I want you to change your behavior!”

          ‘SMACK!  CRACK!  CRACK! SMACK!  SMACK!’

          Feet flailing, with his hands scrabbling at the carpet and his bare heine on fire, Alan wailed over the sniggers and muted comments of the witnesses:

          “AAAH!  OOOOW!  I’LL CHANGE!  I PROMISE!  OOOOW!”

          The other ladies were getting louder.

          “Elvira’s giving him a good spanking!”

          “No more than he deserves, from what I hear!”

          “Look at how red his bottom is!”

          (Sniff)  “Not as red as when he was paddled in front of the store, according to what my son told me!”

          “He’s really a cute young man – “  (Snicker, snicker)

          “And knows it.  Every vain boy needs his trousers taken down for a good spanking to remind him he’s no better than anyone else!”

          “His pride’s the only thing he’s lost with his pants!”

          “Having his pants down for a whopping in front of us is exactly what he needs!”

          “I bet he’s mighty embarrassed to have us see his bare behind!”

          “Maybe he’ll think twice before he brags on his friends again!”

          “Smack him harder, Elvira!”

          ‘SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!’

          “OOOOW!  AAAAH!  STOP, PLEASE!  ENOUGH!  OH! OOOOOOOOW!”

          ‘CRACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!’

          “NOOO-OOO!  OOOOH!  AAAAAH!”

          The spanking lasted at least a full twenty minutes.  Alan felt his bare butt had received the same bruises and blisters he’d gotten after that ignominious paddling in front of half the town.

          Mrs. Stockwell gave him a final, stinging ‘SMACK!’ and put down the hairbrush.  She patted his bare, smarting red seat affectionately.

          “I think perhaps you’ve had enough, now, Alan.  I do hope at last you’ve learned to behave.  Bragging doesn’t become you at all.”

          Alan was near tears.  “Yes, ma’am.”

          “You may get up.”

          Getting up and facing the ring of smirking women was almost as bad as the spanking itself.  Flushing, with his face as red as his stinging ass, Alan stood and hastily pulled up his jockey shorts.  He tried to turn away long enough to prevent their seeing his bare cock, but wherever he turned there were still women watching.  Trying to ignore the interested stares and smiles all around him, he then bent over and pulled up his jeans, fastening them, zipping them up and buckling his belt.

          Mrs. Stockwell rose from her place and moved to the mahogany desk, returning with a check in her outstretched hand.

          “Here.  A thousand dollars as promised.  And wherever you move to, I do hope you’ll remember today.  You could be a very nice young man if it wasn’t for your inconsiderate mouth, you know.”

          The ladies were all smiling.  Alan took the check.

          “Thank you...”

          “And thank you, for your participation.  It’s been a good exchange, don’t you agree?”

          Alan nodded dumbly, then turned and made for the door.  He was aware that every eye in the room was focused on the steaming rear of his well-rounded, tight jeans as he opened it and went out into the hall.  The maid was nowhere in sight.

          When he sat down in the car, he felt the full impact of a very sore, hot and smarting bottom.  He squirmed a little, but realizing it was no use, he started the car and drove back to his apartment.  He tried to stop thinking of his embarrassment – having his pants down and his bare seat turned up right in front of all those wealthy women! - but his stinging behind kept reminding him. 

Well at least he’d be able to move away now.

          He parked the car and approached the door to his apartment building.  More boys were congregated there than usual.  In spite of himself, Alan felt another blush rising from his neck.

           “Hey mister!  Didja jist git another spankin’?”

          Good God – how did they know?

          “My Mom works fer rich ole Mrs. Stockwell doin’ her cookin’ – she sez yuh was gonna git a spankin’ wid thuh hairbrush today!”

          “Didja git it?  Huh?  Huh?”

          “Didja git it right on yer bare beheine?”

          Alan was red-faced again and trying to push past them without replying...

          “MY mom works for the lady what lives alongside Mrs. Stockwell, and she sez she was invited to WATCH!  Wuz she there?  Huh?”

          “Did she see yuh git a spankin’?”

          “Didja hafta take yer pants down fer thuh spankin’?”

          “Didja hafta turn up yer bare behind fer thuh hairbrush?”

          “Is yer butt sore, Mister?”

          “Kin we see it?  Huh?  Huh?”

          People were stopping on the sidewalk to listen.  Alan finally made it through the crowd of boys and slammed the front door after him.  His red face stayed with him for the next half hour.  And kept coming back every time he tried to sit down.  The apartment was on the front of the building, to the right.  So at last Alan raised one of the front windows and looked down to see if the boys had gone.

          One was still there, and looked up at him – alerted by the sound of the raising window.  It was the boy who said his mother was Mrs. Stockwell’s cook.

          “Hey Mister!  My Mom said Miz Stockwell has friends over in Cambridge - where yer movin’ – an’ she wuz tellin’ them onna phone about thuh Masons an’ how she wuz gonna smack yer bare behind wid thuh hairbrush tuhday...” 

          Alan sighed and closed the window.

          Maybe he’d have to find a different apartment than the one in Cambridge.