Boy Arsonist

Author: UKboy

(Usual disclaimers apply)

On a hot summer's day in 1947, the sleepy little town I grew up in was uncharacteristically busy. A raging fire, fanned by a warm NorWester, swept through scrub on the hill above the town. At one stage, the fire threatened a farm house. It took many hours before the volunteer fire brigade got the blaze under control.

The 12 year old brat who had started the fire was me. A neighbour had seen me running down the hill and told my father. Under threat of 'the belt' I admitted to playing with matches.

Dad put me in the cab of his truck and we drove to the fire station. The volunteer firemen had not long returned from the hill and were in the shower room.

I looked at the big men, naked as the day they were born, rinsing the soot and grime from their bodies. I saw the pink flesh of six sculptured pairs of manly buttocks.

"Men!", my father shouted, "I've brought your firestarter'.

The firemen turned and looked at me. The expressions on their faces were very hostile.

"Boy!" one man shouted, "You need a bloody good hiding". There was a chorus of agreement.

"That's why he's here", my Dad explained. "I've worn out my belt on his backside but he never seems to learn".

"I'd teach him a lesson he wouldn't forget" growled that fireman.

"Aye!" chorused his friends.

"Right!" said Dad. "It seems only fair that you all should give him a hiding, one at a time".

The firemen grinned.

"He doesn't look very clean" shouted one of them.

"He had a bath on Saturday night" said Dad.

"But today's Friday!" The men roared.

Dad told me to strip. I knew I was already in b-i-g trouble. Refusing would have only made things worse. I shucked off my clothes and Dad pushed me under the shower with the men. The water was hot. One of the older men patted me on the behind.

"You'll have weals on it, sonny!"

"Eat your tea off the mantlepiece after I've finished with you".

The hot water ran out. After a quick sluice under the cold, the shower ended. The men dried their big bodies briskly. One threw me a towel.

"Leave his clothes here in case he runs away".

"Good idea".

The men changed into their street clothes. I eyed the size of the belts some of them were wearing. Like their biceps they were b-i-g!

An older man who I recognised as Mr Gibson the butcher, steered me towards a small room containing a hospital type gurney and a chair.

"Don't you move!" he cautioned me and left the room.

Dad poked his head 'round the door.

"I'll be in the smoko room playing cards", he said. "You cooperate with the firemen. OK?"

"Yes, Dad", my voice trembled.

"Remember, it's for your own good". His head disappeared.

There was a window high up in the room. Sunlight streamed through. It would be light for hours yet. After considerable time had elapsed, footsteps squeaked on the highly polished linoleum in the corridor. Mr Gibson came into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Right, young man!" the butcher/fireman said in his booming voice. "Each man will give you the hiding they think you deserve". He looked grim. "There will be a period of approximately thirty minutes between hidings to allow you to recover. I suggest you use that time to reflect on your actions today".

He sat on the chair and told me to stand in front of him. Gently he removed the towel. I blushed and put my hand over my penis.

"Don't be shy", he said, "I've got boys of my own".

Deftly he put me over his left knee, holding me in place with his right leg. His big hand caressed my buttocks and was then raised high in the air. The paw swatted my right cheek with considerable force. He spanked me hard and long. I wriggled and bawled with the pain of it.

"Now, you've got a sore little bum" he declared, giving it a final couple of spanks. He released me and I stood up. Mr Gibson patted me on the head as he left the room.

The spanking had hurt but I got far worse at home. Maybe this wasn't going to be such an ordeal after all.

Time passed but then I heard the sound of boots on the polished linoleum again. Standing in the doorway was a very large, young man. Seth Cleverley was a son of the farmer whose house I nearly burned down today. He strode into the room and slammed the door. The towel was ripped from my body as he carefully examined my bum.

"Not even red!" he said scornfully, "I'll soon change that!"

Effortlessly he lifted me onto the gurney. He pushed me into a kneeling position. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him go to the fireplace and pick up a heavy wooden firebrush. In an instant he was beside me. The heavy brush paddled my cheeks with such force I felt them tighten and swell. The attack on my rear was hard and ruthless. I was paying the price for very nearly making the Cleverleys homeless. Tears ran unchecked down my face. I bawled with the savage pain of the paddling. Seth Cleverley was like a machine and I was on the receiving end of it.

Then it was over. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and left the room. I remained kneeling on the gurney, scorching pain radiating from my tortured tail. Eventually I clambered down.

Again the wait. Then the boots. This time the fireman was Scott Johansen, a man in his late teens who worked as a labourer for the district council.

"Please!" I said to him, "I've got to do wees".

"Ok. Come with me".

He took me into the Men's Room. We stood side by side at the urinal. His stream splashed into the gutter. My effort was much more modest but I felt better with an empty bladder. The fireman buttoned himself up and took me back to the room. Scott Johansen yanked down a length of wooden curtain rod.

"Kneel on that chair. Arse in the air. That's right".

White-hot bars of flame seared across my already very tender flesh.

Finally, the beating stopped.

"Good lad".

Scott Johansen whistled as he walked back to the smoko room, a spring in his step.

My buttocks felt as if they had swollen to twice their normal size. I crawled onto the gurney snd lay down on my side. After an age, the squeak, squeak of the boots and Fireman Cecil Wilder was in the room. He managed the local bank.

"Down you get".

He tisked, tisked when he saw the state of my behind.

"Tie your towel around your middle".

The older fireman took off his belt.

"Hold out your left hand".

Crack! He brought the leather down onto the palm of my outstretched hand. Five more licks followed.

"Now the right".

Crack! He saw the hurt mirrored in the expression on my face. His eyes glittered. Thw belt fell five more times. Then Mr Wilder re-looped his belt in his trousers.

"Did they hurt?"

"Yes, Sir".

"Good". He turned on his heel and left the room. I held each stinging palm inside my armpits. His punishment had spared my poor bottom and I was grateful for that.

After another interminable wait the fifth fireman appeared in the doorway. Eric Whiteheart was a 60 year old retired gentleman.

"It's alright lad. I don't have the stomach to hurt you".

He whipped off his belt and hit the top of the gurney.

"Yell, boy!"

So, Mr Whiteheart gave the gurney the hiding of its life while I made make-believe bawls of pain. I liked Mr Whiteheart. He winked and left me to it.

The wait was so long I actually dozed off. It was now dark outside. Then footsteps and the sixth fireman came into the room. It was Scott Johnasen's twin brother Percy! 19 years old, big and mean looking. He had a disconcertingly high pitched voice.

"Get that towel off!"

He inspected my damaged posterior and grunted his approval.

"They gave you a real sore arse, didn't they, boy?"

"Yes, Sir".

"Now I have to give you a hiding". I didn't think my behind could take any more punishment.

"Please don't hurt me any more", I pleaded

"I haven't even started yet. That blaze you lit scorched acres of bush and damn near torched the Cleverley's house". He scratched his muscular buttocks. "That fire didn't get as hot as the cheeks of your bum will tonight".

The fireman unlooped his belt.

"Face down on that table, sonny".

I climbed up onto the gurney and lay with my sore bum sticking right up in the air. His thick leather belt lashed my buttocks. I howled with the pain of it. Tears flooded my face. He laid into me long and hard. I tried to wriggle out of the way of the flying leather but the end of the belt thudded inside my crease, punishing the very tender flesh within. I clenched my buttocks as the savage assault continued. My voice was hoarse from shouting.

There was a break while he changed sides. I felt his big hand touch my roasted rump.

"Warming up nicely". He could have been talking about the weather. The buckle end of the belt thudded down. Percy Johansen was muscular and fit. Each hard lick radiated incredible hurt. Time stood still in that room. I was entirely focused on the savage hurt being inflicted to a part of my anatomy not usually on display. The big fireman grunted each time he flayed me with that leather and I replied with heartfelt yells. After an age the belting finally ended.

"You've had enough". The fireman ran his hand over my blazing backside.

"Fry a couple of eggs on here for our supper", he said with a grin. He got something from the first aid cabinet. A cool soothing liquid which he applied gently to my fiery mounds. A finger explored my crease and touched my hole.

"You haven't been rooted yet". It was a statement not a question.

"Scott and me been rooting since our balls dropped". The finger moved out of my crease.

The big hands continued to rub that soothing lotion onto my bottom. Although I was just beginning to cope with puberty, I knew what country boys meant when they talked about 'rooting'. His hands expertly massaged the hurt from my twin-orbs.

"That feel better?"

"Oh yes, Sir!"

His hands continued their magic.

When I had recovered enough to sit on the gurney the fireman spat in his none-too-clean handkerchief and gently cleaned the tear stains from my face. Then he helped me down from the gurney and wrapped the towel around my middle.

"Let's get you dressed and find your Pa".

When we entered the smoko room the firemen all grinned at me.

"S-sorry I l-lit the f-fire".

"Good lad".

Dad put me over his shoulder and took me home.

A story from UKboy. moonspender2@yahoo.com