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A Bend in the Road, part 1. By R. Palme
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
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? ** W A R N I N G !!! ** W A R N I N G !!! ** ?
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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.
...continued in Part Two: BEND02
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? Thanks, R.P. ?
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