A Bend in the Road by R. Palme
... a story of a young boy's coming of age...
Introduction
My name is Kyle Spencer and I am a twenty-year-old freshman at university.
I am studying language arts and my life long dream is to be a writer. A
teacher in my private prepatory school once told me that the world's
greatest writers draw best from their own experiences. So, in this first
effort, I am sharing with you a truthful and open account of my memories
of a very different coming of age. You might find it strange, bizzare or
maybe even boring in parts, but it is a true and lengthy account. "Truth
is stranger than fiction."
Chapter One: Samuel & Bed-wetting
I had always prided myself on being a "precocious" child, ahead of my years and a bit of a handful for my professional parents. When I turned nine years old, my parents plotted their revenge. In the late summer of that year I was promptly shipped off to Shawnigan Lake School for Junior Boys.
Most adults would understand that that kind of news can be shocking to a little boy. But think how much more shocking if that boy were a bedwetter!
Shawnigan Lake was a place where rich parents and divorced women sent their kids to get rid of them for a while, either to get them out from underfoot, or to clear the way for unbridled middle-aged sexual adventures. My step-Dad swears on the bible that they he me to Shawnigan for a good old-fashioned prepatory education, but I think it was his way to try to cure me of my bedwetting problem.
On the night after they told me my real Dad died, I was six years old. I had never wet the bed before. I had a vivid dream that re-occurs occasionally to this day. In that dream I am at our beach house, along the West Vancouver coast in British Columbia. My real Dad and I are swimming in the sunny waters off a private cove beach shared by several families in the area. Only it's not my real Dad, but he's similar, strong, gentle and faceless. We are playing together, splashing and carrying on when I climb into his lap, waist high in the warm water. It's the warmest, most comfortable feeling in the world. There he begins to tickle me, and tickle me until, giggling wildly, I can no longer hold my pee and it spurts out in a warm flow around my swim-suit and into the warm salt water. I feel so relaxed and happy, and the faceless Dad begins to focus and smiles and comforts me. But before I can really make out the face, I wake from the dream in a sweat.
That first morning I rolled over and was shocked awake again by the sudden cold of my soaking-wet flannel pyjamas. I started to cry. My mother came in my room and immediately saw the large yellow stain that creeped across the mattress and sheets. She seemed distressed, but stopped herself from scolding me because of what happened to my real Dad. She kept quiet and slowly stripped me out of my wet bed clothes. The housekeeper was told to draw a hot bath to clean me up.
After that incident I only wet the bed a couple more times until I was about eight, usually after having that dream. But my Mom got remarried to some guy "Samuel" from Alberta, who moved in with us after their honey-moon. That day it happened again. I had the day off from school to go to the airport with our housekeeper to meet them with a car. The plane was late and I was very tired and bored of the whole affair. As the car sped home, rocking gently as cars do, I fell asleep in the back seat. I dreamed the dream and before I could see the face of the faceless man I awoke having peed in my pants! I was eight, an almost grown-up boy and it was humiliating. I tried to hide it but as soon as I stepped out of the car at home, Samuel noticed it. Right away he turned to my mother and started yelling. I started crying and ran in the house with the housekeeper close on my heals.
Samuel must have talked my mother into letting him handle it because she did not come up after me. Before I could start to pull off my wet pants, Samuel came into my room and ordered me to leave my wet pants on, to teach me a lesson. He told me to stay in my room until he came back later. I heard him tell the housekeeper and my mother that he had a fix for "little babys" and that they weren't to go in my room. I just cried myself to sleep on my bed.
Later that afternoon Samuel came back and entered my room with a shopping bag from Sears. He called me over saying he had a something for me and with a big grin pulled out a flanelette diaper and a pair of opaque plastic pants.
"If you want to be a big baby, Kyle, then we're going to start treating you like one."
"N...n..no, I promise I won't pee my pants again, really, I promise!" I squealed in protest as he grabbed me and started scooting me by the arm towards the bathroom. I started crying and my mother looked concerned, but she just hung back a little, figuring it was the right thing to do. My face burned with embarrassment and anger at my new "Dad" who really seemed to be enjoying this. He pushed me first into our large master bathroom and followed, closing the door behind him.
He stood above me screaming, "What are you?"
"WHAT ARE YOU?!"
"I don't know?" I responded meakly.
"You're a baby and a pants-wetter and do you know what happens to little boys who wet their pants?"
"I don't know," I said quietly.
"Yes you do. They have to put on a diaper, just like a little baby. Now tell me what happens or I'll spank you!"
"Th..th...they have to wear a diaper?"
"Say to me, Kyle: 'I'm a little baby who wets his pants and has to wear a diaper'"
Silence
"SAY IT!" his hand moved ominously towards his belt buckle.
"I c..c..can't, " I sobbed.
The belt buckle came undone.
I started slowly, sobbing the whole time. My face burned with tears. "I'm a little baby....."
"Who wets his pants!"
"...who wets his pants...and I have to wear a diaper..."
"There! Now don't you feel better!" Come here now, I'll undo your pants like a little baby." And with that he undid the button on my jeans and pulled down the zipper revealing my white cotton underpants now stained yellow with dried pee. He took one disgusted look and then grabbed and yanked down my pants and underwear in one swift move, leaving me half naked in front of him. My humiliation was horrible and it wasn't yet over. I could tell that from the gleam in his eye.
He told me to turn away from him. I did, slowly, wondering what was next. I felt so ashamed, standing there cold, smelling like little boy's pee with my underpants and pants down around my ankles - naked in front of someone who I hardly knew, an adult I didn't trust. I started to cry again.
"Shut up and don't cry like a baby!" More sobbing as I stood there for what seemed an eternity being more and more humiliated, thinking about being put in baby's diapers. And then without warning, WHAP! I felt a hard sting at my backside as he landed a first stroke on my bare bottom. And then another. I started shivering with rage and fear. I tried not to cry but my face burned where the tears started to streak down across my cheeks. Then it stopped.
I waited, embarrased and cold, still looking away from him. "That's enough Kyle, you'll learn your lesson. Now I have to put your diapers on." Then he took me by the shoulder and pushed me down to lie on the bathroom floor, facing up. My burning bare bum cooled on the cold tile floor. He grinned at me and lifted my legs up removed my pants and underpants with his other hand, throwing them into the corner of the bathroom by the clothes hamper. He let my legs back down and I was completely naked from the waist down in front of him. He seemed to linger his eyes on my hairless groin and I made a move to cover myself with my hand. Taking the cloth diaper he lifted my legs up again, even higher so my bum was lifted off the floor, and laid the diaper under me. I could not resist, or even struggle for fear of another spanking. He took out another item from his bag, which I recognized as baby powder and began sprinkling it on my pee pee saying, "All little baby's have to have baby powder !" After the powder he wrapped the flannelette up between my little legs and pinned it around my waist. It felt smooth and warm, but all I wanted was for it to be over so I could go to my room and hide. Next he brought out the diaper pants and put them over my feet and pulled them up my legs and over the diaper. "There, now you're just like a little pants-wetting baby."
I stood and waddled back to my room in the diapers. I wasn't supposed to
come out of my room and the housekeeper brought me dinner on a tray. I
sat at my desk in my diapers feeling embarassed, humiliated and squeemish.
But something about that incident left a lasting impression in a little
boy's mind, because it all seemed sort of erotic to me.
Well that night I had the dream and wet the diaper again. The discovery the next morning brought another spanking and thoroughly upset Samuel who thought he had dried me up forever. He changed me into a dry diaper and I had to spend all day Saturday in it. Sunday morning he came into my room and pulled my sheets down of me. Without speaking he reached his hand down into the front of my diaper to feel if I was wet. I didn't wet it this time and I got to take them off during the day. Sunday night he came into my bedroom again at bed time and pulled off my pyjamas and put another diaper on "Just in case." I got to take them off before school on Monday morning. After that I had the dream a few more times and had wet nights which were sometimes followed by being put in diapers for the next night or two. Shortly thereafter Samuel moved us down to California to live in his house in Santa Barbara.
Chapter-Two: Shawnigan Lake
Private school was originally my step-Dad's idea. Samuel, as I called him, had gone there and put the bug in my Mom's ear that I would have a "unique boy's-life experience," whatever that is. He figured the pressure of being humiliated as a bedwetter with other boys would soon dry up my few wetting nights.
It was your typical exclusive, classy, boring, boarding school, full of
stuffy tradition, rules and discipline, located in a rural area of
Vancouver Island. That's off the coast of British Columbia, up in Canada.
My family's headquarters was a large beach bungalow in Santa Barbara,
California. I wasn't really too keen on leaving the radical beach
lifestyle at age ten.
Yet, despite what I thought was a convincing argument to the contrary, I was forced to trade all my old friends, my own pinball machine, a 21" colour TV, my own fridge, a three-times-a-week-college-aged-maid (who possessed an over-endowment of all that makes California girls "the best"), and a private bedroom with bath overlooking the beach for . . . (big breath) . . . a row of musty old buildings deep in the woods around a swampy lake, overseen by Nazi concentration camp guards in hiding, an army of snotty nosed brats who've probably never even been surfing before, and a tiny bedroom with no fridge, no TV, and a roommate. Yuch! I was not impressed, but what can you do?
The school was huddled together like circled wagons awaiting an Indian attack. The main grouping of low buildings consisted of The Lodge, The Dorm, and The School Proper. There were two large houses, one for teachers, the other for the head master and his wife. A rickety old boathouse extended out on The Pond. Redwoods and Douglas Fir trees were everywhere, dripping with spagnum moss and a high wrought iron fence and gate protected the front entrance. I suspected that it was built as much to keep little boys locked in, as to keep strangers and wild animals out. It was quite a ways from town, not too many neighbors, and only one main road, quite isolated really. However, there was also a senior boy's school not too far down the road and a girl's school too, but way on the other side of the lake.
Chapter Three: Christopher's Eyes
Those eyes. It was his eyes that everyone admired most. The first time I saw Christopher he was standing at the entrance to the Long Hall, near the gates to the school's grounds. I had just arrived on the school bus that picked up a group of us new boys from our parents in town. He was crying, not out loud but more like sobbing really. I imagined that he had either been punished by one of the Nazis or was homesick or something. He hadn't expected someone to come along, and choked back his last sobs, a run of clear snot still streaking his quivering upper lip. I trudged by with my luggage dragging low, contemplating the hopelessness of my own prison term at this death camp. He was a bigger kid and looked tough, which gave me a perverse thought, "What a baby! Misses his parents already . . . bet he wets the bed." He stood with his legs parted slightly and I looked at his jeans. They bulged out a bit, I knew he wasn't a fat boy, he was lean and muscled for pre-pubescent, but something was funny. And then I had a funny thought. I'll bet he was wearing diapers. What a humiliation it would be for a tough kid.
I guess that he could read my thoughts, because as I stole a second glance at his eyes, I was disarmed by his intense gaze returned. The blueness of his eyes was striking, very light, robin's egg blue. His lashes were long and wispy where they hadn't been wet by tears, and they seemed to reach out and caress everything they surveyed.
His lashes weren't those scary blond eyelashes that look albino. They were a light brown-ashey colour that suggested softness despite his tough exterior. I was drawn to him immediately. As I looked on, he scowled angrily at me and I was truly afraid that he had read my thoughts.
I returned a timid smile, crinkling my nose and brow, in a weak gesture of appology. Immediately his blue eyes sparkled and grew wide. I felt suddenly exposed. His eyes probed deeply into mine, freezing me in my tracks for almost a minute. It was as if he wanted me to see inside him, past the tough exterior, to a lonely little boy inside.
In those eyes I could see a world of pain and laughter and sadness all expressed at once, so that if one were to put their hand up and block out the view of his lips and nose, they wouldn't be able to tell if he was smiling, crying, or angry. What you could feel within the pupils of those two orbs was fathomless, really a kind of emptiness.
I had to think to breathe again and I suddenly got a giddy feeling in my stomach and privates that made me need to go to the bathroom right away. Catching my breath nervously, I turned away embarrased, continuing on quickly to the dorm to find the bathrooms. That's all I needed was to pee my pants on the first day. Those eyes. He had that much effect on me, and it made a lasting impression.
A Bend in the Road by R. Palme
... a story of a young boy's coming of age...
Introduction Revisited
My name is Kyle Spencer and I am a twenty-year-old freshman at university.
Now please enjoy ... A Bend in the Road, Part 2
Chapter Four: A Boy's Life
Life at the school was not really as bad as I had imagined it would be. I was only ten, probably the shortest kid there. A star pupil prematurely
accelerated into a world of eleven year olds. Having always been self- motivated and resourceful, I knew how to loosely adhere to "rules and regulations" without being a "teacher's pet," so I got along ok. The food was mostly tolerable and the teachers mostly stupid or blind and not too heavy on discipline.
There was a "rich" mix of rich boys from different countries all over the world at our school. In my class I counted three Japanese, two East Indian, six from Europe and one black from Ghiana, Timothy Mbutu, who later became my friend. The rest from U.S. and Canada. They were sons of diplomats, bank presidents, doctors, lawyers . . . and one local barber's son in the Sixth Grade who was teased endlessly; we called him "Lotto Boy" because his father had won the lottery and he really wasn't one of us.
Each morning before showers we had to stand in our underwear, in front of our rooms during inspection. In our uniforms, we all looked united, members of a group. In our underwear we were reduced to our individual selves, naked, shivering and masked only by the minimal cloth we chose to sleep in. "Pyjamas were for babies," we had all decided the first friday night at a dorm get-together. It was the suggestion of an older floor monitor, who I now suspect had wanted more of an eyeful during the morning
inspections.
It was funny to see the regional difference in choice of undergarment. Timothy wore the thickest, cleanest white cotton underwear I have ever seen. They stood out smartly against his little dark-black body and I wondered if his parents had thought he was being shipped to Alaska to go to school. The french boys, Pierre and Robert wore these loose cotton undies with a wide panel in front and no fly. Gunter from Germany wore nylon bikinis in all different colours that looked almost like bathing suits. Stripes seemed his favourite and one pair that had holes worn on the sides that let you see a bit more smooth pink flesh. Christopher stood out because he was much taller than the rest of us and the off-white pouch of his Jockey's was a little bit fuller, showing early signs of puberty.
This was actually Christopher's second year at Shawnigan, he was twelve and still in the Fifth Grade. The only reason he was still at Shawnigan at all was because of his mother, a fashion model. Where most of the kids' parents had either money or influence, she must have had a bit of both.
I shared a room with James, a fat kid who was fanatic about collecting hockey cards. The wall on his side of the room was plastered with sets of the Vancouver Canucks, colourful because of their ever-changing uniforms. His
family lived in the New Hampshire and put him in Shawnigan "until he learns to behave like a gentleman," which is probably still a long time coming.
Most of the kids were jealous of my home life, though they shouldn't really have been, except for the beach, of course. This was because I went home on the bus and then a plane from the city of Victoria one weekend of every month. After the first four months at Shawnigan, I settled in pretty much and would ask to stay there with my friends some of those weekends. Anything to stay away from Samuel.
By the start the new year, I was only going home on obligatory holidays and school breaks.
Chapter Five: Chris & Me
Some days, I would look at him from my desk by the windows, not really contemplating the work, just admiring the way Christopher teased the girls and gave smart answers to the math teacher and sparkled his eyes. It never really occured to me that it might be considered so inappropriate to adore another boy so much.
Christopher was a mischeivous tough boy, often forgiven because he was very beautiful really. He made us all call him "Chris," because "Christopher" was what his mother and the teachers called him. His light brown hair was
always tussled and long. He had fair skin but was nicely tanned from the previous summer. He seemed to like the sun, removing his shirt whenever he could. I wondered whether he too was originally from California, or whether he just liked to show off his body. He was slim and muscular for an almost- twelve year old, not too skinny and a fast runner.
Whereas most of us just giggled a lot when someone said "bum" or "fart" or "pee," Chris swore using adult words and taught the rest of us to say "fuck" and "cunt" and "frig" under our breaths. He didn't really fit in
with the old-world money crowd.
One time I came up behind him in art class, to look at his drawings. While I stood over his desk, I sneaked a close look at his neck, exposed above a cotton school shirt. His skin seemed so smooth and soft, covered very lightly by a boy's velvety fine hairs. I started to put my hand on his shoulder but got scared and drew it away. The assignment had been to draw a vase of flowers. His drawing was of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with flowers coming our of the handles. He drew it perfectly from memory. Chris was a
true rebel and I admired that too.
I didn't think about my own appearance much in those days, but I guess I was a normal cute nine-and-a-half-year old with dark brown hair parted at the side and dark brown eyes, and ears that stuck out too far from my head. My skin was smooth, with a few freckles, and I had the faintest hint of hair growth on my arms.
Of course I had already begun to learn about sex and growing up through reading books. I even went so far as to inspect my hairless groin daily for the first sign of puberty. I was NOT looking forward to it. I had a large "attitude", being rather smart for my age, and was a bit of a loner. The other kids sometimes picked on me, calling me "perfessor" or "teacher's pet." Some teachers did take a special interest in me, as I would work quietly and usually finish first. This left me lots of time for thinking, scheming and dreaming. It also left me enough time to get up to other bits of boyhood mischief.
That first fall, dreams of Chris as my "special friend" filled my head constantly and it got so bad that I had filled the pages of my personal scrap book with drawings of him and me; as best friends, walking together, building a tree fort, wrestling together on the grass . . . sitting on a stone fence by the pond fishing. Those eyes of his.
Chapter Six: First Awakenings
As I said, I knew a little bit about sex, but I hadn't really done much of anything serious. I had just played innocent games like most children who are curious about sex.
There was a time when I was eight. A little girl from a nearby beach house, Susie, let me see her underwear while we played "house" on an old mattress stored in her parents' garage. She lifted her pretty dress over her head coyly. I still remember the soft cotton-flannel material, double-thick at the crotch, with pink roses in a pattern and a discreet lace-like elastic around the each leg and the waist. I was allowed to get on my knees and inspect closer, but had to keep my hands behind my back. The cloth covering her young pud was smooth and thick, steeped in a damp body warmness that helped carry her "sweet pea" aroma. She wouldn't let me touch it. I was only allowed to look and she giggled loudly when I tried to smell. We didn't do it very long for fear that her mom might be lurking nearby.
For some reason, the details of this experience made quite an impression on me. Afterwards Susie made me give her my favourite horse figure in payment. I enjoyed the thrill of doing something illicit, sneaky, and erotic. We both knew our parents wouldn't approve. But it was nothing serious, really, just child's play.
At age eight-and-a-half I had a friend Terry, same age, who would stay at our house afterschool until his mother, my mother's best friend, came by on her way home from work. We were left quite alone to do what we pleased since both my parents also worked. I was an only child and our housekeeper, Erma, was usually too intent on soap operas and afternoon game shows. From 3:30pm to 5:00pm, when my father returned home, we pretty much had the run of the
house.
Terry was quite curious about sex and nakedness and such. He kept wanting to play hide and seek where the object of the person who was "it" was to pull down the pants of the other. He was most often "it" and I got "de- pantsed" regularily. Amongst our many other nasty games and rituals, the most exciting was "Doctor". The patient would be slowly stripped to his underwear and examined closely, one layer at a time.
Once, while playing Doctor, we found a box of my mother's sanitary napkins. Terry convinced me that they were to absorb a girl's pee, and that they were like a more grown-up sort of diaper. He wanted to test this theory out, so we discretely took two and wore them in our underpants for the afternoon. We excitedly drank quantities of cold juice trying to reach the point where we could no longer hold our bladders. The dry pad felt good as it rubbed against my little dick, but I felt oddly peculiar about what we were doing to my mother's private things.
There we were, both standing in the bathroom with our pants around our ankles, holding up our shirts and big bulges of padding in the front of our briefs. It was difficult to try peeing with my penis standing up out of excitement. We tried to relax a bit and concentrate on "letting go" but before either of us could really pee more than a dribble, I heard my father pulling up in the driveway. We quickly flushed the evidence down the toilet and tried very hard not to look guilty the rest of that afternoon.
When his mother came, Terry raced out to the car. I supposed he was very anxious to get home because he had not yet gone to the bathroom. For days I was scared my mother would discover the absence of two pads. Either she
didn't notice or thought the housekeeper took them.
The exhilaration and danger of discovery plus the sharing of such intimate secret activities made Terry and I good friends. In the hopes of
pursuing our favourite activities, we decided to form the Fun Club.
Chapter Seven: The Fun Club
The activities of the Fun Club were fairly innocent and limited to showing each other our underwear and collecting pictures of girl's and women's lingerie from the Sears catalogue, sharing stories, and the very occasional flash of our privates. On one hot August night Terry, my girl cousin Joline and another young friend Frank Stiller, were staying overnight. We all got to talking dirty and Terry let slip about the club. Of course Joline and Frank wanted to join the Fun Club too.
My parents went out for dinner that night, leaving us alone with Erma. All through our dinner, hamburgers and fries, we just giggled excitedly and bugged each other nervously. Erma must have thought we were crazy. Afterwards she went to her room and concentrated on an episode of 60 Minutes. We locked ourselves in the rec room, the basement of the beach house, and turned the tv set up to mask our true intentions.
Terry wanted to come up with an appropriate initiation feat for everyone to do. Fascinated by girls, he kept suggesting we play "post office" or "spin the bottle" with Joline. She protested that it wasn't fair since she was the only girl. Surprisingly, her suggestion for a game was, "Why don't we play strip poker." Supposedly her older brother and some of his friends had talked her into playing once.
Being a girl, Joline was like an unknown animal to me. I was curious but she could be dangerous. So I hesitated, not sure if we should go through with it or not. Frank and Terry pleaded with me to play, but we didn't have any cards in the basement.
Frank was nosing around in a closet when he pulled out the game Twister. He started spreading out that plastic cloth with the coloured circles on it and suggested that we invent a variation of the poker game. By this point my heart was racing and I was thoroughly caught up in the anticipation of actually getting to see a live naked girl. I had already begun sneaking looks at my father's Playboys, hidden in the back of his underwear drawer, so I had a good idea what it was all about, but I really wanted to compare with a girl around my age.
We sat down together in a circle on top of the plastic cloth, much like we were having a picnic in the middle of the room. Each of us selected our own personal colour; Red, Blue, Green, and Yellow. With an initial spin of the Twister dial, the person whose colour came up had to take off one piece of their clothing. We then proceeded like stip poker. Terry was the first to lose his shoe. Joline lost both her shoes and a sock. I lost a shoe. It
went like this until Frank was the first to have to pull off his pants. Joline giggled incessantly and we thought we'd get caught. Once Joline was down to her underwear we started kidding around and going in slow motion.
Joline was a bit mad, saying "Go, go, go!"
Terry was the first to have to undress completely. He had lost three rounds in a row. He stood up in his Superman UnderRoos and slowly inched them down, revealing himself directly to Joline. She scowled and giggled. Beingthe loser we told him to run naked around the basement so we could all get a good look. His little hairless pee-pee swung to and fro. It was cold in the basement. His little wrinkled balls were tight against his smooth boy's body. Terry declared that it was unfair that he was exposed first and didn't get to look at everyone else, so we decided to keep playing until the last person was completely undressed. The next to lose was Joline, then Frank and then myself until we were all naked in the circle.
Mostly we gawked at Joline and she took her time sizing each of us up (or down) too. She was ten, the oldest. But unlike the women in my father's dirty magazines, Joline had no hair above her "quim" (that was the word we
sometimes used). She was ten years old. I wasn't sure I liked older girls' hairy pussies, since they seemed dirty or something. There was something about Joline that was clean and fresh. I think she boasted that her breasts were beginning to grow but they didn't show that much.
Terry and I caught each other staring at Frank who was uncircumsized. His parents were vegetarians and they probably thought it was more natural or something. Anyways, it looked cool, but different from our own. As we sat there looking, we all grew warm and uncomfortable, with Joline giggling again.
We weren't sure what to do next. Someone suggested that we actually play the game of Twister in the nude. Before we could make a move, however, Erma was banging on the basement door saying, "What you chill'uns up to, anyways?"
...continued in Part Three: BEND03.ZIP
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