Wednesday, 29 July 2015

Mark and the Holiday Haircut: Part 1

Dora Legge ran the seaside guest house where Hilda Fry and her thirteen year old son, Mark were staying. The house was situated facing the town’s esplanade with its colourful flowerbeds and neatly trimmed lawns. For those holidaymakers who wanted something more energetic to do than sit on the beach all day, there was crazy-golf and a putting-green. There were ice-cream stalls and sweet-shops selling mint rock and other teeth-rotting confectioneries. Gift shops did a brisk trade in novelty items, sun hats, windbreaks, buckets and spades, as well as postcards (both saucy and holiday views) and a selection of paperbacks and magazines suitable for reading on the beach.

All things considered it was a charming holiday destination and as long as anyone could remember, the sun always shone during the ‘season’. The main town, with its selection of shops, was situated in a valley which swept in a gentle curve away from the sea and up to the railway station which was served by a branch from the mainline some ten miles distant. A small fishing harbour, connected to the station by a narrow-gauge railway, provided modest employment for some of the townsfolk, but abundant opportunities for the more artistic members of the local community. Visitors too came armed with sketchpads, pencils, brushes and paints, for it was a delightful place, rightly famed for its wonderful ‘light’.

It was no surprise to learn that young Mark spent practically his whole time dressed in nothing more than his swim-trunks and plastic beach-sandals. Since Mrs Legge's guest house was only a few yards from the seafront, there was simply no need for Mark to wear anything else in the sunny weather.

Of course mum had packed some smart clothes for Mark to wear for church and any outings they might take together, but as this outfit was a jolly short-trousered sailor-suit which Mark simply hated to be seen in, he was happier to spend all his time in swim-trunks and sandals.

Mrs Legge, or Aunty Dora as she was known to her younger guests, was always full of advice which Mark found infuriating. When such advice was given as it always seemed to interfere with his plans. Aunty Dora would, for instance, advise that sun hats should be worn. Mark thought these were sissy and usually contrived to ignore this advice. There was one day, however, that he wished he’s listened and done what he was told.

Breakfast had been taken as usual in the front-room which overlooked the esplanade. Mrs Legge tapped the barometer. It showed no sign of movement. There had been a high pressure system sitting over their part of the country for a week now and it showed no sign of change. The mercury in the thermometer too never seemed to get any lower, day or night. Mark was glad he was on holiday and as he crunched his way through his morning bowl of cornflakes he planned the day’s strategy with regard to his ongoing plan to divert the stream which ran down across the sandy beach. It was a quite pointless task and one entirely suited to the abundant energies of a thirteen year old schoolboy like Mark, since by the next day all traces of his previous day’s work were obliterated by the incoming tide.

Mrs Legge tapped the barometer once more then turned to announce that it was going to be a hot day, a very hot day. Then she walked over to Mark and ran her hand through his mousey blond hair:

“It’s about time this little boy paid a visit to the barber’s,” Mrs Legge announced.

Mum looked up from the paper she was reading and agreed: “Yes, it is looking rather straggly, I agree…”

“Oh, mum… do I have to,” Mark interrupted. He thought it very unfair to have to pay a visit to the barber’s shop. He was on his holidays!

“There’s a very good barber’s shop on the High Street,” Mrs Legge informed Mark’s mum, “I always recommend young boys who come to stay with me visit Mr Kirby at least once during their holidays… it helps to keep boys cooler and less fractious if they have have their hair cut nice and short… keeps them looking smart too. Mr Kirby might be a little old-fashioned, but he always gives boys a proper haircut,” she said as she teased the longer hair on the nape of Mark’s neck.

Mark, who was already dressed in his swim-trunks and sandals ready for another day battling to divert the course of the stream on the beach, was busy trying to finish eating his cereal in double quick time. The hair tickled his neck and when he renewed his protest that it wasn’t fair to have a haircut on holiday, he coughed and spluttered causing milky cornflakes to drip from his chin and splash down onto his bare chest.

“Now look what a mess you’ve made…” mum said and watched as Mrs Legge, without a moment's hesitation, took Mark’s head firmly in her hand and with her other hand, picked up a spare napkin and wiped the boy’s mouth and chin. Mark could do nothing and sat still as Mrs Legge proceeded to wipe his bare chest as well.

“There, what did I say?” Mrs Legge observed as she rubbed the cloth roughly over Mark’s chest. “He’s getting fractious already what with his long hair and this heat… Dear me, what mucky-pups boys are...”
When no words of apology or thanks were forthcoming from Mark, Mrs Fry was obliged to prompt her son: “Isn’t there something you should be saying, Mark?”

Mark looked up at Mrs Legge staring down at him: “Thank you Aunty Dora,” he said politely, “I’m sorry I made a mess.”

“Perhaps we should get him a bib to wear,” Mrs Legge suggested.

“A very good idea,” mum replied.

“MUM!!” was Mark’s response. He wasn’t sure whether he was being teased or not, but didn’t want to leave it to chance.

The subject was abruptly changed back to that of the length of Mark’s hair and before he knew what was happening mum had agreed with Mrs Legge that it was high time Mark paid a visit to the barber’s chair for something the landlady called a ‘holiday haircut’.

“But mum… I’ve got loads to do on the beach…” Mark said and protested that it was far more important to dig channels in the sand so the stream could be made to flow into a big pond he and some other boys were planning to build. He couldn’t let his friends down. “Please, mum…”

Mrs Legge merely fingered Mark’s straggly locks disdainfully and sniffed as if to say that haircuts were far more important than playtime on the beach. Mum got the message.

“You’ll feel much better and look a lot smarter with a nice haircut, Mark. It’s hardly going to take up the whole day… you’ll have plenty of time to play with your friends later. Besides there are one or two things I need to get from the shops…”

“... but, mum…” Mark pleaded. Mark hated having his hair cut at the best of times. The thought of having it cut on holiday was simply awful. It just wasn’t fair!

Mrs Legge smiled at Mark who was frowning with indignation and quite obviously trying to think of other excuses to get out of a trip to the barber’s. She spoke: “You can keep your swim-trunks on, Mark… the barber is quite used to boys being sent up from the beach for haircuts… and that way you can go straight down to the beach once the barber’s finished with you and join your friends…”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mrs Legge,” mum said, “That’s a good idea, isn’t it Mark?”

The thought of being able to dash straight down to the beach seemed to mollify Mark and he was reluctantly forced to agree with mum. He was of course also obliged to thank Aunty Dora for her suggestion.

Mark was sent upstairs to clean his teeth after breakfast while mum and Mrs Legge discussed his forthcoming haircut.

“Oh the best thing is for boys to have their hair nice and short this time of the year,” Mrs Legge said when she was asked for her opinion by Mrs Fry. “Mr Kirby, the barber, is very experienced. If you tell him you’re staying with me and that you want a nice, neat holiday haircut for Mark, he’ll know what’s required.”

“I’m sure you know what’s best, Mrs Legge,” mum replied, “I tell Mr Kirby what you said. I thought I might take the opportunity to do a little shopping while I’m in the High Street. Do you think Mr Kirby would mind if I left Mark with him to have his hair cut?”

“I’m sure that if Mark behaves himself and does what he’s told, that would be perfectly alright with Mr Kirby…”

So it was that Mark and his mum left ‘Sea Breeze’, Mrs Legge’s guest house and set off along the esplanade before turning off into the High Street. For thirteen year old Mark it suddenly felt very strange to be walking along wearing nothing but his very brief boy-trunks and red plastic beach sandals among the shoppers who were all fully dressed of course. His feeling of discomfort wasn’t helped when he found himself being looked at; indeed one or two girls actually stopped and giggled when they saw Mark so scantily clad walking up the High Street. Mark began to wish he’d asked mum if he could wear something more than his embarrassingly brief swim-trunks and plastic play-sandals. Matters were made worse as Mark felt his little trunks ‘riding up’ between his bottom cheeks as he walked along beside mum. On the beach this was annoying, but Mark was usually far enough away from grown-ups for it not to bother him that much, besides he could adjust his little swim-trunks easily enough without anyone noticing. But on the High Street it was different. For a start Mark knew that if he started to pull at the back of his boy-trunks, it would simply draw everyone's attention to the fact his bottom was almost completely bare, but there was something else. To his intense annoyance mum insisted Mark hold her hand as the street was quite busy and she didn’t want him wandering off. Mark told his mum that he was thirteen and quite able to look after himself… Didn’t he go camping with his friends? Wasn’t he allowed to go swimming at the local pool? Didn’t he go to scouts? Why, one of his best friends even had a small rowing-boat which the two of then would take out on the river...

All this made little impression on mum who simply said: “That’s as maybe… but we’re not at home now, we’re on holiday and I don’t want you getting lost.” She paused and pulled her son closer, “Now, I want you to behave yourself when we get to the barber’s and do everything Mr Kirby tells you… do your understand, Mark? I don’t want you to start making a fuss…”

Mark furrowed his brow, upset that his mum felt the need to tell him… him, a boy of thirteen… how to behave.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Mark?”

“Yes, mum…”


Without thinking Mark slipped his free hand round to his bottom. To his horror all he could feel was his own bare skin… his super-slim boy’s swim-trunks had ridden all the way up between his bottom cheeks. Mark’s pert young bottom was completely bare!

Mum tugged Mark’s arm again and they resumed their walk. Mark did his best to try and keep his bottom from the stares of the curious shoppers. He prayed he’d have the time to sort himself out when they got to Mr Kirby's, the barber.

Although it hadn’t yet occurred to Mark there was also the not unimportant question of what steps he could take in the event of his becoming, let’s say, a little over-excited. On the beach arousals were something a boy could hide quite easily by electing to lie on his tummy in the sand, or to head for the sea for a swim. In either case the boy could normally get far enough away from onlookers who then wouldn’t be able to see the prominent bulge in his boy-trunks.

I was of course quite a different state of affairs in the crowded High Street and it didn’t help matters that mum was holding his right hand and pulling him along. Fortunately for Mark, Mr Kirby’s barber’s shop was not much further and with a last reminder from his mum to behave himself they entered the shop.

Mr Kirby was busy sweeping up cut hair from around one of the chairs. Mark looked around and thought it did look to be a very old-fashioned barber’s. He noticed a polished but very worn-looking short plank of wood had been placed across the arms of one of the chairs. He correctly assumed this was for younger boys to sit on so the chair needn’t be raised so high in order for Mr Kirby to reach their heads. Mr Kirby looked up to greet Mrs Fry and Mark as they entered his shop.

Mrs Fry explained how they were staying with Mrs Legge and how he had been recommended by her to cut her son’s hair.

“Mrs Legge said to ask you to give Mark a ‘holiday haircut’ and that you would know what was required…”

“Certainly,” Mr Kirby said, “I’ve known Mrs Legge at ‘Sea Breeze’ for more years than I care to remember and she always recommends me when her guests’ children need haircuts. Yes, I can certainly make sure Mark has a proper holiday haircut.”

Mark was starting to feel very nervous, particularly when mum announced her intention to leave him with the barber to do some shopping. “I might call in at that nice little tea-shop Mark and I passed on our way up from the sea-front…” she said.

“You take just as much time as you like Mrs Fry. You can't rush a holiday haircut and if we are finished a bit early Mark can wait with me here until you get back.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr Kirby.” Mum turned to her son, “Now, you are to behave yourself, Mark… I don’t want to come back and find that you’ve been naughty, because then I’d have to tell Mrs Legge that you’ve let me down…”

Mark looked and felt sheepish as he promised he’d be a good boy, but he wished mum wouldn’t embarrass him like this in public. Now he was even more nervous than ever and felt incredibly self-conscious wearing just his tiny swim-trunks.

The shop bell tinkled as mum went out and Mark was left to the tender mercies of the barber and his array of combs, brushes, scissors and clippers.

“Right we are then,” Mr Kirby said cheerfully, “A summer haircut is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Mark replied. He watched Mr Kirby walk towards the barber’s chair with the wooden seat across the arms.

“Come on… up you get,” Mr Kirby said as he patted the piece of polished wood.

Mark was taken aback somewhat. He wasn’t a child: “Please, sir… I’m thirteen, sir…”

“... and still a child as far as I’m concerned,” Mr Kirby said firmly, “...and children do as they are told and sit on the child’s seat to have their holiday haircuts in my establishment.”

So Mark did as he was told and under the watchful eyes of Mr Kirby, climbed up onto the barber’s chair and was just about to turn and sit down when the barber reached for one of his brushes. Before Mark knew what was happening he felt the camel-hair brush tickling the backs of his thighs as Mr Kirby asked him whether he’d been onto the beach today.

“No, sir… no I haven’t… mum brought me straight here, sir.” Mark replied as he felt the soft bristles brushing the lower curves of his bottom that were exposed by the little trunks.

“Well it's better to be on the safe side… We don’t want boys leaving sand all over my chairs, do we?”

“No, sir… but I haven’t been on the beach yet today, sir.”

“That’s as maybe…won’t be a minute… there we are... all done. Alright, you can turn round and sit down and I’ll get you properly settled...”

Once more Mark did as he was told, but now the effect of having the backs of his legs tickled with the soft brush was making itself felt in the most embarrassing way possible for a boy, but if Mark thought he'd be able to hide the growing stiffness in his little swim-trunks, he was mistaken. Thankfully Mr Kirby turned away to fetch a barber’s cape and appeared not to notice Mark’s rather prominent boy-bulge as it developed in his trunks. Mark thought, not unreasonably, the cape would cover his embarrassing erection and give him time to get his penis under control while Mr Kirby attended to his haircut. Unfortunately for Mark that turned out not to be the case as Mr Kirby produced a small, child-sized cape that barely reached the top of Mark’s tummy! Mark was mortified. Not only did the cape not cover his now obvious bulge, but it was printed with a picture of Andy Pandy with his arm around Teddy. It looked more like a bib than a barber’s cape! To make matters worse Mr Kirby insisted that Mark sit with his feet firmly pressed against the sides of the chair and his hands gripping the chair arms. Mark tried to keep his knees together, but was overruled and told sit still for his haircut.

Mark looked at his reflection in the mirror and was mortified by what he saw. Perched on the wooden child's seat was a thirteen year old boy wearing a ludicrously infantile cape that hardly served any purpose at all other than to humiliate him. But worse still was the fact that the boy was sitting with his thighs wide apart and displaying to anyone who cared to look, a pair of very brief, brightly coloured swim-trunks made to look even smaller by the presence of an obviously aroused penis, the head of which could be seen pushing against the waistband of the little trunks.

"Now you are to keep perfectly still while I attend to your holiday haircut... I don't want any wriggling or fidgeting... understand?" Mr Kirby said sternly.

"Yes, sir..." Mark said as he gripped the chair more tightly than ever. Try as he might, he couldn't take his eyes off his reflection in the mirror. It was horrible!

"Right, we're going to start by tidying up this long straggly hair... ready?"

"Yes, sir."

“It’s perfectly obvious you haven’t had a proper schoolboy haircut for some considerable time… It’s a perfect eyesore, but we’ll do our best to smarten you up, won’t we?”

“Y-yes, sir…” Mark replied getting more nervous by the second.

“... and how are we going to that?”

“Um… with a holiday haircut, sir?”

“Yes, that’s right… with a nice smart holiday haircut.”

It was almost a relief for Mark when Mr Kirby finally turned and reached for a pair of thinning scissors and a comb. The barber placed his big hand on the crown of Mark’s head and started to comb his fine hair that had been bleached by the sun. Mr Kirby pushed Mark’s head this way and that. He was in complete control as he slowly combed the hair straight.

“Hold still…”

“Yes, sir,” Mark said as he tried to see in the mirror what Mr Kirby was doing to his hair.

Mr Kirby clicked the scissors rapidly and began to cut Mark’s hair. Soon curls of cut hair were tumbling down Mark’s front and over his shoulders. Mark was forced to squeeze his eyes shut when freshly cut hair fell over his face. He tried to blow the tickling hair from his face but was told to keep still by Mr Kirby. When Mark opened his eyes again it was to see Mr Kirby change his scissors and with these and his comb, the barber began with a different cutting technique. With his hand, Mr Kirby would position Mark’s head and after combing the hair to be shortened, would grip the hair between his fingers and with three or four snips, cut the hair. This went on for some time and each time Mr Kirby would firmly move Mark’s head into a new position.

As more and more of Mark’s sun-bleached hair tumbled down over his bare knees, Mark wondered whether he would be left with any hair on his head at all! When he was able to look down at all the hair clippings, Mark saw there was quite a little pile on the wooden seat between his legs. Mark also had hair stuck to his legs and some of it was rather ticklish. However when Mark tried to brush it away, he was told that he would be given a proper brush-down when his haircut was finished.

Mr Kirby at last turned to put down the scissors. As he did so the shop bell tinkled and a young girl stepped into the barber’s. Mark thought the girl looked familiar, but didn’t recognise her at first as one of his friends from the beach. Her name was Lucy and she was carrying a parcel.

“Sit down and I’ll be with you just as soon as I’ve finished giving this boy his holiday haircut,” Mr Kirby said and Lucy sat down to watch the barber at work.

Mr Kirby picked up his electric clippers next and once more placed his big hand firmly on Mark’s head. “Now keep nice and still… these clippers are very sharp… one slip and I could have one of your ears off.” Of course Mr Kirby wasn’t serious, but the thought of what might happen if he didn’t do as he was told was enough to make even the most truculent boy keep still while he had his hair clipped.

Mark then felt his head being pushed right forward until his chin was pressed hard against his chest. He heard a click as Mr Kirby switched on the clippers and then a loud buzzing noise filled the air as Mark felt the cold clippers being pressed against the back of his neck. Mr Kirby took his time drawing the clippers up the nape of Mark’s neck. When he reached the top the barber would flick his wrist to toss the clipped hair to one side and then move the clippers back to the base of Mark’s neck once more.

The buzzing clippers tingled and Mark fought hard to keep still. If Mr Kirby hadn’t been holding his head so tightly, Mark would have surely tried to move his head. Eventually the clippers were turned off and Mark was allowed to lift his head up. He tried to see what Mr Kirby had done with the clippers, but even when he looked at himself in the mirror and tilted his head this way and that, he couldn’t quite see what the barber had done at the back of his head.

While Mr Kirby made some adjustments to the clippers, Mark saw Lucy looking at him. He caught Lucy’s eye in the mirror just as Lucy exclaimed: “Wow! That is so short!”

“... and so it should be,” Mr Kirby said, “It’s a holiday haircut… it’s supposed to be short!”

Lucy gave an impish giggle as Mark suddenly recognised his friend from the beach. Mark was more embarrassed than ever. There he was, feeling very exposed, perched on the child’s seat having a holiday haircut wearing nothing more than a skimpy pair of boy-trunks that were quite unsuitable for wearing in the High Street, plastic beach sandals and the most childish bib-sized cape imaginable. Judging by Lucy’s exclamation his holiday haircut was going to result in him looking even more of a dork than he already felt himself to be. Why, Mark asked himself, why couldn’t Mrs Legge, Aunty Dora, keep her opinions to herself? It just wasn’t fair!

Lucy was a bit of a tomboy and liked to help Mark on the beach in his daily efforts to divert the steam. She wore her hair in a short bob style and at a glance could almost be mistaken for a boy.

Mark asked Lucy whether she had been sent for a holiday haircut.

“Not on your nelly!” Lucy laughed, “Mum sent me up to give Mr Kirby some magazines and comics my brother has finished with… thought Mr Kirby might want them,” As she said this Lucy looked up at the barber who said that was most thoughtful and told her to leave them on one of the chairs.

“Can I stay and watch?” Lucy asked.

“By all means,” Mr Kirby replied, “I’m sure when you see Mark’s holiday haircut you’ll want one too…” he added.

“Not on your…” Lucy started to say, then paused and politely continued, “... um, I don’t think so, thank you.”

Mr Kirby shrugged his shoulders and prepared to carry on with Mark’s haircut. “I think we’d better give you a bit of a brush down before we go any further,” he said

“Please, sir, can I help?” Lucy asked.

“Alright,” the barber said, “How would you like to give your friend a brush-down?”

Lucy didn’t need to be asked twice and Mr Kirby gave her the camel-hair brush which was usually used to brush cut hair from customers necks, but in the case of boys wearing only their brief swim-trunks, the brush could be used more freely. Under the barber’s instructions Lucy began and brushed Mark’s head and face.

“Don’t forget to brush above the ears…” Mr Kirby said as Lucy discovered the tickling properties of the camel-hair brush. “... that’s it… now the neck… see there’s a lot of cut hair on the shoulders… that’s good, we’ll make a barber of you someday…”

Lucy might have been enjoying herself, but that’s more than could be said of Mark. The brush tickled and of course Mark squirmed and he was told off by Mr Kirby for letting go of the arms of the barber’s chair. There was also something a little more worrying… Mark’s penis was beginning to be naughty again. Mark’s erection had, to his immense relief, subsided somewhat during the progress of his holiday haircut, but now to his horror he could feel that all too familiar tightness growing in his little swim-trunks again. It was the result of being tickled by the brush which was getting ever closer to his tiny trunks. Mark was very ticklish at the best of times, something Lucy seemed instinctively to know and she made the most of it by teasing the brush across Mark’s tummy. Mark did his best as he struggled to stay still on the child-seat, but when Lucy discovered some loose hair on Mark’s waist and tickled him there, Mark squealed and squirmed and almost jumped out of the seat.

Mark pleaded with Lucy to stop tickling him with the brush, but this only seemed to encourage Lucy to tickle him even more! Mr Kirby stood by and praised Lucy for doing a thorough job of the ‘brush-down’, just as he admonished Mark for his naughtiness. Then the blow fell as Lucy, her face the very picture of innocence, pointed at Mark’s swim-trunks and said:

“Please Mr Kirby, sir… Mark’s got something stuck in his swim-trunks…”

Mark was beside himself with embarrassment. He never expected to be betrayed by his friend from the beach.

“Looks to me as if that’s where he keeps his stick of seaside rock,” Mr Kirby said jovially.

Lucy, a picture of innocence, looked quizzically at Mr Kirby and replied, “But won’t it get all sticky in his swim-trunks?”

Mark couldn’t believe his ears! He fumed with indignation. It was perfectly obvious what his ‘stick of seaside rock’ was, but Mark couldn’t say anything to the contrary without admitting he had an erection and facing the consequences. He knew it was very naughty, very naughty indeed, to have a stiff penis and here, in the barber’s shop, was his friend deliberately getting him into trouble.

“That’s as maybe,” Mr Kirby said with an air of finality Lucy found disappointing, but which to Mark was a relief, “but I’ve got a holiday haircut to finish… Now you go and sit down again and maybe I’ll let you help me a bit more later,” he said to Lucy.

Lucy did as she was told and watched as Mr Kirby picked up the electric clippers once more. Again the barber told Mark to keep perfectly still and placed his big hand on the boy’s head. Mr Kirby’s grip was so tight that Mark couldn’t move his head anyway so the barber was able to keep Mark’s head in exactly the position he wanted. The clippers buzzed and Mark felt them as this time they were drawn up the side of his head. Over his ears the clippers went and Mark watched in the mirror as more of his hair parted company with his head and tumbled down over his shoulders.

When finally Mr Kirby turned off the clippers, Mark was told to keep still while the barber picked up a set of long, thin scissors with which to attend to his fringe.

“Eyes closed…” Mr Kirby said and Mark felt the scissors pressed against his forehead.

Snip, snip, snip… the scissors clicked and Mark was allowed to open his eyes.

“There we are all done!” Mr Kirby said as Mark looked at himself in the mirror. Mark was horrified by what he saw.

“One ‘summer haircut’… it’s loosely based on the old Buster Brown haircut, but I’ve taken some little extras from the sides and back…” Mr Kirby explained, although Mark was hardly listening, “That’ll keep you nice and cool for the rest of your stay. Now, let’s get you tidied up…”

But at this point something inside Mark snapped. Maybe it was humiliating holiday haircut; maybe it was because he was being treated like a little kid sat up on the child’s seat and dressed in nothing more than his brief swim-trunks and the utterly shameful Andy Pandy cape he’d been made to wear; maybe it was because he was in the barber’s rather than playing on the beach… or maybe it was because of the giggling coming from Lucy sat on one of the chairs by the window.

Whatever it was Mark jumped out of the child’s seat, but instead of making his escape found himself caught in Mr Kirby’s powerful grip.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” he said sternly.

“It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” Mark shouted, “Why don’t you give her a holiday haircut?!” He added, much to the amusement of Lucy who sat grinning as she watched Mark’s temper tantrum.

“Because she is a girl…” Mr Kirby pointed out.

“... but it’s not fair…” Mark repeated.

“... and your mum brought you here for a haircut…” Mr Kirby reminded Mark, “... a smart holiday haircut, your mum asked for and a smart holiday haircut is what you now have… in spite of this rude outburst!

These last words rather shook Mark. Being rude to anyone was very naughty and he suddenly had the feeling Mr Kirby wouldn’t let him off lightly. Mark was right as Mr Kirby removed the child’s seat from the chair and sat himself down. He pulled Mark round to face him.

“It’s about time you found out that I won’t tolerate rude behaviour in my shop.” And, as he finished saying these words Mr Kirby gripped Mark’s swim-trunks by the waist and had them pulled down to the boy’s knees in a jiffy. Mark was horrified, but before he could say anything he was hauled over Mr Kirby’s knees for a good, sound spanking. And a good, sound spanking is what the thirteen year old got. Mark’s legs kicked about. His swim-trunks slipped further and further down his legs until they slipped from one foot and were left flapping uselessly from the other.

Poor Mark squealed and pleaded for Mr Kirby to stop, but was simply reminded what a rude, ungrateful, naughty little boy he was. And it wasn’t long before tears were running down Mark’s face which was almost as red as his bottom by the time Mr Kirby had decided Mark had learnt his lesson. Of course Mark’s punishment wasn’t quite over and he was sent to stand in a corner of the shop with his hands on his head… sans swim-trunks!

Lucy sat and watched Mark’s spanking. It was always nice to watch a boy getting his bare bottom spanked, but all good things must come to an end as Lucy realised it was time for her to go. Her mum would be wondering where she was, so she quickly said her goodbyes and left Mr Kirby’s shop.

Hardly more than five minutes later the shop bell tinkled and Mark’s mum stepped into the barber’s. The first thing she saw were her son’s swim-trunks hanging from the back of the barber’s chair. Then she looked up to see Mark standing in the corner with his bare and very red bottom on display. She could tell from the way her son’s shoulders moved that he had been crying.

“I’m afraid Master Mark had a little temper tantrum, Mrs Fry,” Mr Kirby explained, “... but nothing that couldn't be easily dealt with.”

Mark twisted his head round and mum could see the tears trickling down her son's face. If he thought he would get any sympathy from mum, Mark was in for a disappointment.

“I've told you about this sort of behaviour before, Mark…” It was obvious Mrs Fry was very annoyed with her son and apologised to the barber for all the trouble Mark had caused him. She turned back to her son. “What will Aunty Dora have to say? Upsetting Mr Kirby like this… you’ve let yourself down… you’ve let everyone down, haven’t you?”

“... yes, mummy…”

“I think we’d better take you straight back to ‘Sea Breeze’… No playtime on the beach for you today, Mark…”

“Oh, but mum!”

“No ‘buts’, Mark… I want you to thank Mr Kirby for your nice holiday haircut and to ask him politely for your swim-trunks…”

Mark hung his head: “Yes, mummy,” he replied and turned to Mr Kirby to do what his mum asked. Mark’s swim-trunks were duly returned and the Andy Pandy cape removed. Mark pulled on the tiny trunks and carefully eased them over his sore bottom ready for mum to take him back to ‘Sea Breeze

It’s just not fair, Mark thought as mum took his hand and they left Mr Kirby’s shop.

Friday, 24 July 2015

Christopher's Story: Part 6

David was astonished at the size of Francis’ penis. Now that Francis had been ‘scalped’ by the two young cowboys, Terry and Ben, it looked even larger… more so as it was obvious to all who saw his penis that Francis was having an erection.

“Would you look at that nob…” David gasped and wriggled sideways so that Joseph, to whom he was tied back-to-back, could have a better look, “Look! He’s getting a nob-on too!”

“He’s not the only one…” Joseph muttered to himself, only too aware of his own aroused penis sticking out from the ridiculously revealing loincloth his mum had made him wear to play Cowboys and Indians with Terry and Ben. Joseph struggled with the cords that bound him to David. “It’s not fair…”

“Oh, shut up, Joe… stop wriggling or you’ll have us both over,” David said, not taking his eyes from the sight of Francis’ big, freshly denuded penis. It was getting bigger… David’s mouth fell open as he watched, “Wow… look at that!”

David wasn’t the only only transfixed by the sight of Francis’ growing erection. As the penis pushed its way outwards the flimsy slip of leather that formed the Red Indian costume slid to one side. Sarah and Sam watched and relished their older brother’s palpable embarrassment.

“Wait ‘til I tell mum…” Sarah said to her younger sister, “She told me to make sure Francis behaved himself…”

“Excuse me mam…” Terry said and touched his cowboy hat politely as he interrupted the cowgirls watching Francis getting ever more embarrassed, “... but we’ve got some work to do.”

Terry explained they had information the Redskins were in possession of dangerous weapons and if the cowgirls would agreed to lend a hand they were sure that if they all worked together the Indians could be disarmed.

“I reckon as how them varmints have got their weapons fully loaded, miss…” Ben chipped in, “You be mighty careful now and do as Terry says…”

Sarah wasn’t sure what her younger sister as thinking, but she had a reasonably good idea what the cowboys were talking about. She walked over to Joseph and David, looked them both up and down as she slowly circled them. Joseph blushed deep red and looked at the ground beneath his feet when he saw Sarah look at his penis sticking out through the braided loincloth. The poor boy couldn't help himself and his penis jerked as it gradually moved upwards. Instinctively Joseph tried to turn away from the cowgirls, but being securely tied back-to-back to David, this proved difficult to achieve without causing himself more shame and embarrassment as his penis flopped from side-to-side. David stood his ground as best he could in order to stop them both from falling over and yelled at his fellow Redskin to keep still.

“Come on, miss, we better move these varmints over there…” Terry said and pointed over to where Francis had been left hanging with his hands tied above his head to a tree branch.

Christopher watched from his prone position, hogtied on the ground just a few feet away. From where he was Christopher could see how Francis’ big penis had pushed the tiny loincloth to one side and was now pointing skywards. This meant his rather plump and well-developed testicles were fully displayed in their hairless ball-sac.

“Hmm…” Christopher thought as he watched Francis’ foreskin start to ease back of its own accord and wondered if Francis was in for the same sort of teasing and tickle-torture to which he had been subjected. Christopher wriggled about on the ground. He could feel his own lengthening penis rubbing the warm, dry grass that was also tickling his bare thighs. It was not a comfortable position to be in and Christopher would rather have been tied up like David and Joseph… well, Christopher would rather not have been tied up at all! But he knew that wasn’t going to happen, not playing Cowboys and Indians with Terry and Ben. What Christopher really, really wanted was to wank himself silly. By now Christopher was so desperate he’d have done anything… well almost anything… to have a wank. He’d lost track of all the times since he’d been staying with Mrs Harper when he’d been thwarted in his attempts to masturbate. Every time he thought he’d found an opportunity to play with his penis, Christopher heard someone approaching and was forced into vehement denials that he was up to anything naughty.

“Omygod!! Francis!” Sarah yelled when she turned and saw just how engorged her older brother’s penis was becoming. Sam looked shocked and thought Francis was being a very naughty boy and Sarah acted as if she too was appalled by Francis’ behaviour. Taking the lead, Sarah appealed to the cowboys:

"Terry... look!" Sarah said, "Look what this Redskin is doing... Is there anything we can do?"

Sarah looked for all the world as if she was about to reach for the smelling-salts... as if she were a winsome young maid who needed a big strong cowboy like Terry to take care of her.

"Keep calm, miss," Terry said and assured her he knew how to deal with this sort of thing, "Redskins are pesky critters, miss, but don't you worry, Ben and me'll see to it you won't get hurt..."

David and Joseph were moved and positioned so that Joseph was facing Francis. For his part, Joseph's penis was almost as engorged as Francis' and as they were made to stand less than a foot apart, Ben piped up:

“If you’d care to follow me, miss and then we’ll show you how we make these Redskins dance…”

Sarah was intrigued by these words and eagerly followed the young cowboy. Ben stopped and took a pair of stout gloves from the bag as well as a pair of secateurs. “It’s as well to come prepared,” he explained as they walked across the field. Sarah’s face lit up with surprise when she saw what lay ahead of them. It was the nettle-patch!

“Oh, my! You're not going to… with those… you wouldn’t…” It was difficult to tell whether Sarah was excited or shocked at the prospect of teasing the Red Indians with nettles.

“Fresh green stinging-nettles… there’s nothing like them for getting Redskins to talk,” Ben explained as he cut a bunch from the large clump that grew in the corner of the field, “When those varmints see these nettle-leaves… you should hear them holler! They’ll soon show us whether their rifles are loaded…”

“You mean… you mean you’re going to get them to… to… with their rifles?” Sarah thought she knew what Ben was talking about. At least she hoped she knew! The idea these young cowboys could… oh, playing Cowboys and Indians was far more exciting than she could ever have imagined.

“Sure thing, miss… once they feel a stinging-nettle tickling them, they’ll do anything,” Ben said matter-of-factly.

“Do you, um, make them fire their rifles every game… I mean every time you play Cowboys and Indians?”

“Not every time,” Ben informed her, “It depends who’s playing. Can’t let Christopher… Terry said his mum… Mrs Harper, told him he’s not allowed to.”

Sarah was intrigued by this revelation, but Ben couldn’t enlighten her any further. It didn’t matter a great deal to her, because she was far too interested about what would happen to Francis when he was questioned by the cowboys.

“Are you going to make Francis fire his rifle?” she asked.

“We’ll see,” was all that Ben would say.

As they made their way back across the meadow to the copse, Sarah and Ben saw how helpless the Red Indians were. Christopher was lying, hogtied on the ground. He’d exhausted himself and for the time being lay still and watched what was going on around him. When he saw what Ben was carrying he kept quite still and prayed the nettles weren’t going to come his way. Joe, facing Francis, couldn’t see the two approaching, so didn’t understand the horrified look on the older boy’s face. David started squirming immediately he recognised the saw-toothed edged leaves of the green stinging-nettles. This caused Joseph to nearly fall face first against Francis who was tied up with his arms hoisted high above his head.

David had experienced a nettling before and so had good reason to jerk back, away from the fresh green leaves that Ben held in his gloved hand.

Francis couldn't believe what Terry and Ben were up to. For goodness sake they were only ten years old. How did they know about the persuasive powers of stinging nettles? Francis prayed they didn't want anything from him, he'd been humiliated enough as it was having his pubes removed. Heaven knows what he was going to say when his classmates saw him in the school showers. He struggled helplessly twisting his almost nude body in a hopeless attempt to free himself, but the sight of the horrid green stingers and what they were capable of caused a most unexpected reaction in the seventeen year old.

Francis had first encountered stinging nettles as a young boy scout when, on his first camp he was initiated into his patrol. This involved, among other things, being ‘pegged out’. As Francis struggled in vain, face-to-face with Joseph, he vividly recalled how he had been stripped and chased bare-nude around the scout camp, before being spread-eagled on the ground to have his wrists and ankles securely tied to the pegs which had been driven into the ground earlier. Francis remembered how he’d been teased by his fellow patrol members who’d all gloatingly told Francis how they’d all been tickled by the nettles during their own initiations. The young scouts brandished a few stalks of freshly cut nettles in the direction of Francis’ penis. It hardly needs saying that Francis had never in all his young life felt as helpless as he did that day… until, that is, he found himself forced to play Cowboys and Indians with Terry and Ben, along with his younger sisters helping out as cowgirls. Dammit, he was seventeen! Far too old to be playing stupid games of Cowboys and Indians!

Francis twisted and turned and twisted himself about in frustration at the end of the rope that held him tied securely with his arms in the air… but it was no use.

“It won’t do you any good,” Joseph said in an attempt to commiserate with his fellow Red Indian.

“I don’t care,” Francis said petulantly, “I shouldn’t be playing stupid games with little… little…” he glanced at Joseph’s precocious penis as it poked out from the absurdly revealing play-outfit. Francis realised ‘little’ possibly wasn’t the correct descriptor to use in Joseph’s case, “...well, um, kids anyway…” he conceded.

Sarah walked up to her helpless brother. She’d heard what her brother had just said, “... but mummy says you were playing games… playing games all by yourself… in your bedroom. Mummy said that’s why she wanted you to get some fresh air, instead of playing on your own…”

Francis was mortified. He had a pretty good idea mummy knew what he’d been doing all alone in his bedroom, but he prayed to god she hadn’t said anything to Sarah. It was bad enough when Joseph sniggered… after all both boys were helplessly displaying the most blatant erections imaginable. It was difficult to think that Sarah hadn’t deduced what might be implied by mummy’s words, but Sarah kept her counsel.

While Francis was distracted by his sister, Ben had moved closer towards David. Ben shook the green stinging-nettles threateningly at the Redskin. Instinctively David pushed back against Joseph.

“Hey! Watch out! Stop pushing!” Joseph yelled, not realising what was happening behind him, “Stop pushing… or...or…”

“Yeargh! Get that thing off me!” Francis screamed, as Joseph pushed forward and rubbed his penis against the older boy. Joseph tried to move, but David kept pressing back to dodge the nettles which forced Joseph to push against Francis. The boys’ penises rubbed together and the more they wriggled about the stiffer their nobs became.

Francis was horrified, but not for perhaps the more obvious reason that he was revolted by the touch of Joseph’s penis against his body. No, it was because Francis feared that bodily contact would stimulate him beyond the point at which he would lose his own self-control.

More memories of his scout camp initiation flashed through Francis’ mind. He remembered how he’d been tickled beyond endurance; how his fellow boy scouts had laughed as they watched him being teased; how he’d wriggled shamelessly, but to no avail, against his bonds. But what was worse, much worse, was when he saw the green leaves getting closer and ever closer to his painfully stiff penis…

Francis remembered vividly the effect of one little tickle of the stinging-nettle on the shaft of his penis. Those tiny red bumps had itched for hours afterwards. The other  boys had laughed as Francis kept scratching and rubbing himself after he was released from the pegging-out. The more he tried to relieve his itching penis, the worse the itch became. Francis’ penis remained stoically erect, as had been the intention of his nettling. In the end, and much to his acute embarrassment, Francis sought relief through masturbation after his patrol leader told him solemnly the only known cure for nettle-rash on the penis was to rub fresh cum onto the affected area.

Francis, even though he was seventeen years old, still believed what his patrol leader had told him. The thought of having to endure a nettling in front of  everyone… including his sisters… while tied up helplessly was rapidly becoming an intolerable torment. What would happen when those itchy little stings needed the soothing balm of fresh cum? Francis could almost feel those tiny horrid red bumps and the thought of them… the thought of how itchy his penis would feel… had the perverse effect of making Francis somewhat more excited than ever!

Feeling Joseph’s penis pushing up against his own was not helping matters and Francis tried to push himself away from the younger boy. As much as he could Francis pushed his bottom back out and made himself look quite ridiculous in the process. Sam and Sarah squealed with delight at their older brother’s obvious anguish. Mum had given them carte blanche to do whatever was needed to ensure Francis ‘got lots of fresh air’ and the girls were certainly taking mum at her word. Francis, dressed in nothing more than an absurd and deliciously revealing Red Indian costume, hanging by his wrists from a rope looped over a tree branch, was clearly getting more fresh air than even mum had perhaps intended. Francis, unable to do anything about his excited, denuded, penis which had so easily pushed the ridiculously small loincloth flap to one side, was trapped, helpless and completely at the mercy of his sisters and the cowboys.

Shamelessly Francis started to beg Sarah to please do something before things got out of hand… Those weren’t the exact words he used of course, since Ben was fast approaching, shaking the fresh green nettle leaves menacingly in Francis’ direction.

Please Sarah… please don’t let them… don’t let them get any closer… Please… I mean it, Sarah…”

Sarah, who was turning out to be a bit of a tomboy, much to the approval of Terry and Ben, simply told Francis not to be such softy, a form of rebuke reserved for boys who were afraid to get their knees dirty and who would do anything to duck out of games.

“I’m going to tell mummy you wouldn’t play properly… you’re a cowardy-custard…” she said firmly.

Francis was deeply offended. Even as he was suspended, near nude, with memories of his scout initiation once more fresh in his memory; even as Ben approached him with the horrid stinging-nettles ready to tickle him, he felt honour-bound to defend himself.

"I'm not a cowardy-custard..." he said, "I bet you've never been..." Then he stopped as the full horror of what a nettle-tickling would mean.

Ben moved closer and David was relieved to see that for the moment it wasn't he who was going to be tickled with the green, spiky leaves. Joseph and he struggled to move themselves out of the way, while Christopher looked up to see Terry moving towards him. Sam walked over to where Christopher was lying, hogtied, on the ground.

"We're going to need your assistance," Terry explained, as he leant over to release Christopher from the hogtie, "That there injun..." he said and pointed towards Francis, "... I can tell he knows about the rifles... but he's going to need some persuading..."

Christopher wasn't about to question Terry's motives. As long as he was allowed to stand up again and they kept those nettles away from him, Terry could 'persuade' Francis as much as he liked. Christopher was relieved just to stretch his legs. He still had his hands tied behind his back and Terry had instructed Sam to tie his ankles together with sufficient slack so that he could hobble to where his fellow captives were.

At last Joseph could see what had so horrified David and Francis as Ben brandished the leaves of stinging-nettles in front of Francis.

"Are you going to tell us about the rifles?" Terry demanded of Francis.

"I don't know what you're talking about..." Francis replied truthfully.

"Looks like we're going to have to make him talk," Terry said turning to Ben.

Ben was eager to see the effects of the stingers on Francis, but for the moment moved them to within a few inches of Francis' erect penis. The effect was extraordinary. To everyone's amazement the big penis began to ooze pre-cum.

"Take them away!" Francis yelled as he struggled in vain to put some distance between himself and the horrid nettles.

"Tell us about your rifle," Terry demanded, "When did you last fire it?!"

"I... I don't know what you mean..."

Terry nodded to Ben who leered and brushed the green nettle leaves across the side of Francis' penis. Within seconds half a dozen tiny red bumps appeared on the stiff shaft and Francis jerked as he felt a terrible need to scratch himself. In desperation he thrust his hips back and forth which made his penis slap his tummy and bounce about. Even his fellow captured Indians thought the sight of Francis’ impromptu ‘war-dance’ highly amusing.

“I don’t know what you’re on about… No! No! Please…!” Francis twisted himself this way and that, but it was no use. Ben deftly swiped the nettles over Francis’ stiff penis once more. Again a neat row of little red bumps appeared, ready to add to Francis’ torment.

Stop it! Stop it! Please… Sarah, tell them to stop it…” Francis begged.

“Oh, don’t be such a sissy, Francis…” his sister admonished him, “It’s only a few stinging-nettles…” Sarah turned to her sister Sam, who was watching the proceedings with a look of fascination that bordered on delight at her older brother’s misfortune. Clearly there was some history between these two. “Do you think we should tell mummy that Francis is being a sissy, Sam?” Sarah asked.

“Sure… unless,” Sam hesitated, “Unless he faces a firing-squad…”

This ultimatum took Sarah by surprise. It seemed to reveal that her younger sister had more of a working knowledge of boys’ games than she would have expected.

It was Terry’s turn to speak: “Beg pardon, miss… but are you sure you want this here Redskin varmit to face a firing squad? I mean do you know…”

“I know what a firing squad is,” Sam said with an air of haughtiness that surprised Sarah even more.

Ben just salivated at the thought of a firing squad. “Want me to tickle the varmint some more, boss?” he asked Terry who thought for a moment then nodded. “Gonna need someone to hold him steady… he’s a-twisting..."

"We'll hold him," Sam said and stepped forward, "Come on, Sarah..."

Together the girls gripped Francis on each side of his waste. Francis protested, but this achieved nothing, aside from making him look even more of weed than before... although this hardly seemed possible.

"That's it, hold him still," Terry said, then added to Ben, "Give him another tickle with the nettles..."

"No... please, I'll tell you anything you want to know..." Francis pleaded. His penis was unbearably itchy and he longed to be untied so he could run away and sooth the terrible stings.

"It's too late for that you pesky varmint," Terry replied as Ben drew the nettles up between Francis’ legs and tickled the older boy’s ball-sac with the green tips of the sawtooth-stingers.

“Wow, boss… this ‘uns got his rifle loaded for sure!” Ben said gleefully as more pre-cum erupted from Francis’ penis and trickled down the shaft, “Want me to give him another tickle?”

“No… not just yet,” Terry replied and turned to face Joseph… or rather Joseph’s penis. “We’ll use this rifle first… what do you think?”

“Reckon it’s ready, boss,” Ben said.

Joseph wriggled about in protest. Much as he enjoyed using his rifle for target practice, he didn’t like the idea of it being fired off in public… and certainly not in front of Sarah and Sam!

“No! I don’t want to…” Joseph protested, but he found himself ignored as Terry set about organising the firing squad detail. Now it became clear why Christopher had been released from his uncomfortable hogtie, as Ben untied Christopher’s right hand. Christopher had been selected to fire Joseph’s rifle, while the cowgirls held Francis in the firing line.

It was a particularly fiendish of Terry to make Christopher use his ‘trigger-finger’ to fire Joseph’s rifle. Christopher, who had been frustrated beyond endurance since moving to Mrs Harper’s while his mum was away, couldn’t believe his ears when Terry told him to take hold of the rifle sticking out from Joseph’s loincloth. Why can’t Terry let me use my own rifle, Christopher thought? My rifle's loaded with plenty of ammunition…

Ben threatened Christopher with a nettling if he didn’t get on with it and take hold of Joseph’s rifle. Christopher had little choice but to do as the young cowboy told him, so, desperately wishing it was his own penis, he grasped Joseph’s stiff nob and started to masturbate the boy.

Francis went ballistic and yelled at Christopher to stop, but Christopher couldn’t stop, not with the ever-present threat of being tickled with the sawtooth stingers being waved in his direction by Ben. Joseph quickly got over his feelings of modesty and started panting with excitement. Meanwhile David, facing the other way, was missing out on all the feverish activity, but by the way Joseph was squirming and noises his friend was making, David soon had a pretty good idea what was going on behind him.

“Don’t you dare let him spray cum on me!” Francis shouted and pleaded with Christopher not to point Joseph’s nob in his direction. But just at that moment Joseph shuddered, pushed his hips out (and nearly toppled over himself and David in the process) as the first blast of cum exploded from his rifle. It landed with a splat high on Francis' chest and dribbled all the way down over the older boy's tummy. The cowboys and cowgirls were delighted to see Joseph’s rifle fire and there was certainly plenty of ammunition as Christopher worked Joseph's nob as if it were a pump-action carbine.

Francis was appalled at the force and quantity of Joseph’s fire-power, but the older boy took everyone by complete surprise when a low shot from Joseph’s rifle caught Francis square on the head of his exposed penis. Without warning Francis, who it was now apparent had been all along on the brink of firing his own rifle, suddenly grunted and sent forth a blast of cum that landed square on Christopher’s tummy. By the time the two boys had expended their ammunition Francis was well and truly covered in Joseph’s rifle-fire and Christopher was dripping with the results of Francis’ totally unexpected blasts.

Francis, hanging limply from the rope above his head, was startled to hear Terry call out the next order:

“Firing squad… about turn!”

It was David’s turn to display his shooting skills. He and the exhausted Joseph shuffled around in a circle to swap places so that David was facing Francis. Needless to say Francis pleaded with Terry and Ben not to make Christopher fire David’s rifle as well, but he was silenced by his sisters who told him not to be such a sissy.

So Francis ended up facing the fire-power of two rifles. Both he and Christopher looked as if they'd been up to no good, but at least Francis did have the satisfaction of release, which is more than can be said of Christopher who remained as frustrated as ever as he felt his hands being tied behind his back once more in readiness for the march back to Mrs Harper's house.

Christopher's heart sank when he realised another opportunity for some furtive penis-play had been missed. But the Red Indians had been captured so quickly, he never had a chance to escape into some bushes... he was so pent up with the urge to masturbate that he wouldn't have even minded  if his fellow Redskins had joined him, but it was not to be and now he faced yet another frustrating evening under the watchful eyes of his host.

Christopher gritted his teeth and said to himself: "How much longer...?"