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What I really expected to have happen when my father discovered my balloon supply under the floor boards.Ret. to Bye Bye B & S Index

My father was involved in a small local civic association that raised their yearly budget by staging a carnival each summer. I had offered to help them the previous year by building and operating a novelty concession stand where parents who were not skillful at the game booths could buy their kids the prizes. Along with all the prizes that were available at the game stands I also sold air filled balloons on bamboo sticks as well as helium balloons. The first year I ran the stand we had had good weather and large crowds and I was not able to get more than about four dozen balloons for myself. Most of them were the ugly synthetic rubber helium balloons. The second year I made sure that the stand stocked a large supply of both Helium as well as stick balloons. That year the weather wasn't as good and I made a point of seeing that probably a half gross or more went home with me after the last night the carnival ran. These were the only round balloons I had. The cheap stick balloons were 100% natural rubber and could be nursed to about 14 inches in diameter before they would burst.

After the second year of running the novelty stand at the carnival I had amassed about a gross and a half of the 312 airships which were my main bustin balloons, along with about 5 dozen of the round balloons from the previous year's carnival, of which perhaps 2 dozen were used since these were my playing with and rubbing balloons. I had my balloon stash hidden under some loose floor boards at the foot of the stairway that led from the second floor to the attic. The previous owner had used the hiding place to hide his booze from his wife and I had found it because the floorboards would feel loose and clunk when stepped on in a certain way.

It was a week night in February and I was working in the cellar on one of my numerous projects. My stepmother and little brother were down at her mothers place so just dad and I were home. Dad had gone up to the attic for something and noticing the loose floor boards came down to the cellar to get a hammer and some nails. I asked him what he was up to and you can imagine the flip flop my heart made when he told me he was going to nail down the floorboards at the foot of the attic stairs. I don't know if I was more concerned about his discovering my balloons or the fact that I probably would never be able to get to them again. After a few minutes I heard the pounding as he nailed down the loose boards and I immediately started trying to figure how I could get the boards up one more time to retrieve my rubber loot without making the rip up too obvious.

Dad finished up and came down the cellar steps and came up behind me. I tried to look busy with my project on the workbench. I was startled and my heart sank when he said, "I believe these are yours". I whirled around and there he was holding a shoe box. I didn't need to guess what was in it. He went on "I really wasn't looking for anything, I just found your balloons by accident when I slid one of the floor boards back to re-position it. I didn't really think you were taking this many balloons from the carnival."

I felt my face flush as I answered him, "Look, I really didn't steal them. I paid at least the wholesale store's price for the unused balloons, so the carnival didn't loose any money. They received what they would have if you would have taken the leftover balloons back for credit." Dad frowned as he stood in front of me holding the shoe box jammed full of balloons. Finally he replied, "You actually paid good money out of your allowance for these children's toys?" I nodded assent. I could sense he was getting angry as he continued, "Just what do you find so interesting about toy balloons that would prompt a fifteen year old boy to steal or buy, whatever, this whole box full of rubber playthings?" I surely knew the answer to his question. I found playing with and being around balloons to be very sexually stimulating since I was five years old. I also was well aware that my dad knew this as well. It was his monthly rough house balloon play with me in our living room that had really gotten me sexed up with rubber balloon play. I also knew this wasn't really what he wanted to hear.

I made up a lame excuse that my buddies, Dave and Mike, and I would use them as targets when we were out in the woods with our air rifles. This was partially true, since we had done this once or twice, but I only allowed the replaceable penny airship balloons from the local general store to be used for this purpose. The large round balloons from the carnival were far too valuable for my sexual play just to be popped off with a BB gun. Dad didn't buy it as he growled, "I don't think so. I think you are using these damn balloons when you are playing with yourself and I'll bet while you've got on those gym and scout shorts you are always wearing around here. Now I want you to go up to your room and strip off the pants and shirt you are wearing and put on a pair of those white gym shorts you salvaged from school; no underpants, hear. Then go in the closet in my bedroom and get me one of my leather belts hanging in the back. You are not going to soon forget what I am going to have you do with these silly childish balloons of yours."

As soon as I had turned and saw him holding the shoe box I suspected dad would want me to destroy my balloons. This would be easy enough since it was a cold February night and our large coal fired furnace was blazing away. It would only take a matter of seconds for the hot coals to burn away the cardboard container exposing the soft sweet smelling rubber bags that were compressed inside. The request that I put on one of the dozens of pairs of thin cotton gym shorts I had salvaged from the trash barrel at school plus bring him a leather belt clothed me in total fear. He had never whipped me before using anything but his hand on my rear, and I thought that hurt plenty. How much more would a leather strap across my buttocks hurt. Would I be able to endure the pain? I didn't rush my errand; I would find out soon enough.

Dad was sitting on the stool at the workbench that I had been using when I returned to the cellar. The shoe box was sitting on the workbench with the lid off and he had several of the larger carnival balloons in a small pile off to the side. As I walked up to him, I hoped ready to face my punishment, he handed me a large green 12 inch round balloon as he said, "Lets see if you have managed to get over your fear of balloons busting since you were younger. This one is your favorite color and I want to see you blow it up until it bursts." I exchanged the belt I was carrying for the limp piece of rubber.

Fortunately I had overcome my fear of balloons bursting in my face the previous summer. It most likely wouldn't have mattered because I was so hyper up tight about the whole scene and my forthcoming punishment I probably could have popped anything my lungs were capable of inflating without hesitation. I quickly went to work filling the dark green rubber bag with good solid lung fulls of air. As I puffed away I was half hoping that he would grant me and my supply of balloons a reprieve as he had offered to do with the ten left over balloons from my seventh birthday party.

It didn't take long for me to get the balloon to a tear drop shape. There was no more available rubber to stretch and contain the blasts of air I was pumping in. I could see dad's face clearly through the now pale translucent green rubber skin that was moments away from being torn into shreds from the pressure that was quickly building as the balloon stopped expanding because it's elastic limit had been reached.

The next breath finished off my pretty green toy. The sound of the exploding balloon in the cellar was defining. There was a shower of green rubber slivers that sprayed about the area where I was standing and a large shredded clump that landed about eight feet away. I smiled as I offered, "Do you want to see me bust off another one? See, having these balloons to bust has gotten me over my fear of them. And blowing them up is good exercise for my lungs." I was thinking of anything to tell him that would spare my toys from the furnace; more than willing to take the certain agony of the belt if he would not destroy them on me.

Dad handed me a yellow one and I quickly had it up to about ten inches in diameter when he suddenly told me to stop and tie a knot in the neck. I quickly did his bidding. He growled, "Come closer, boy." I stepped over to him.

He grabbed the balloon out of my hand with a squeal as the soft partially inflated balloon was pulled from my grip. He bent over and started scrubbing the yellow rubber on my bare legs and knees, slowly working his way up my crotch to the waist of my gym shorts. There was no way I could control myself. In the fifteen seconds or so listening to and feeling the tortured rubber sliding over my bare skin and genitals my dick not only became fully inflated but I was about to shoot a load.

No sooner had dad removed the balloon from the region of my belly button than my shaft jutted out at a 45 degree angle with the front of the thin very loose fitting gym shorts draping from the tip. The rapidly spreading damp spot from the apex of my "tent" was also quite noticeable. Father roared, "That's that kind of balloon play you have been having, isn't it. Just what I want, a son that grows up having sex with a GD balloon." I blurted out, "Well, it beats getting a girl pregnant, don't it?" "Yah, but there's ways to handle that; if you ever become man enough to screw a women. Playing with these damn balloons and beating your meat isn't going to make you much of a man."

Dad was so riled up it was obvious that my toys were goners. He had me move a sawhorse a few feet in front of the furnace that I could bend over while he was applying his belt to my backside. When everything was in place he opened the ash door of the furnace to get a maximum draft. Then he opened the fire door and raked a nice bed of glowing hot coals to the surface. Finally he handed me the shoe box full of balloons as he said nonchalantly, "OK. Let's see how much enjoyment you get out of seeing what our furnace is going to do to your pretty rubber toys. Just toss the box into the center then come around and bend over the horse so you can get a good view of what happens."

I slid the cardboard box into the center of the bed of hot coals and walked around and leaned on the sawhorse. I was well bent over with my chest nearly down on the rail of the horse so I could get a good view of the interior of the fire box. By the time I bent over and looked in, all four sides of the box had burst into flames from the intense heat of the glowing coals. The thin cardboard quickly turned black and curled away exposing the compressed brightly colored rubber bags within. In a few more moments my balloons began to spill out onto the bright orange coals and immediately began to flame. My larger balloons were in the end of the box facing toward me and I saw the hungry flames devour the ends off several dozen. I was both stimulated to the max and sickened at how readily the flames were destroying my beloved toys. Father who was standing behind and to the left side of me had to comment, "Boy those balloons of yours sure burn real good. I think this is a great way for a boy your age who is too old to be playing with little kids toys to get rid of them. However, I would much rather we were burning sex magazines which is what you should have been fooling around with."

I let dad's remarks pass; I was so engrossed in watching my balloons burning. The entire box full was fully in flame and the melting boiling latex with chunks of balloons in it was slowly spreading out over the hot coals like a lava flow. I really wasn't even aware that my dick had roared to attention at the sexually stimulating sight. I also didn't notice dad had stopped looking into the furnace and had stepped off further to my left side.

The pain was instantaneous, like a red hot bar laid across my buttocks. I let out a yell and instinctively stood up to get my butt away from the sudden source of pain. Even with all my bumps and bruises over the years I had never felt such an intense searing pain before. As soon as I stood up, however, Dad snapped, "Bend over and stay that way. I want you to watch your fun toys being destroyed." The tone of dad's voice which I had rarely ever heard before left no doubt this was a non-negotiable command, so I resumed my bent over position. At the swat of dad's belt my hard had collapsed as fast as a punctured balloon, and as I gazed again into the firebox the flaming rubber had completely lost my interest.

I gripped the rail of the sawhorse as tightly as I could vowing not to let out any more spontaneous yelps. The second swat just swelled the pain of my behind further as I held my response to an audible sucking in of air. Dad was not rushing my whipping. He was laying his belt on me about every ten seconds. How long was he going to inflict his punishment and how many more strokes could I handle without my legs buckling?

Dad, sensing my very thought, said, "I was going to give you swat for each of your fifteen years, but I see some blood coming through the ass of your gym shorts so I am going to give you just one more stroke just below the hem line across the back of those pretty bare legs of yours." This was a new location several inches below where the other blows had landed so the intensity of the pain was on a par with his first shot.

I immediately stood up and faced him. He gave me a sad smile as he rolled up his belt and said, "I am very sorry I had to do this to you, but I wanted to insure that the pain and humiliation from this night is what you will remember all your life, not that you got all sexed up watching your balloons destroyed. I want to tell you I am proud of you; you took your punishment like a man, and a man is what I want you to become. Not some queer sissy that gets his sexual pleasure from a kids rubber toy." Then he added, "You have some blood stains on those pretty white shorts your wearing. In any case I don't want you to get any sexual stimulation out of them from what happened tonight later on, so lets see what happens to your shorts when you put them in the furnace with your other playthings."

I thought he was going to come over and rip the hems of the thin cotton shorts as he had done a year and a half earlier with a number of the smaller sized shorts I had salvaged from school, but he just stood there, so I pulled them off which left me wearing just my sneakers and socks. I thought, 'this was just the beginning. Next he will have me go upstairs and get the scout shorts my uncle had given me and the other several dozen gym shorts I had salvaged from school.'

By this time the mound of rubber in the furnace had formed a large pool of bubbling black gunk. I tossed the somewhat blood stained gym pants in the furnace on top of the burning rubber. They immediately flamed and turned from white to black. In a matter of a few seconds all that remained was the heavier elastic waist band.

Dad came over and closed the ash and fire doors of the furnace and told me to go upstairs and take a warm bath and he would be up to put ointment on my wounds. The bath relieved a lot of the pain but there was no question sitting down for the next day or so was going to be down right uncomfortable. This was especially so because dad's last stroke across the back of my upper legs was at the point where the edge of most chairs would press against the back of my legs.

When I was done with my bath dad came up and applied antiseptic ointment to the split and open sores on my backside. He gave me a piece of an old soft towel to place between my tortured flesh and the seat of the gym shorts I would wear to sleep in. I was expecting him to broach the subject of my shorts wearing since he correctly deduced that I got sexual pleasure from my wearing knee pants; and he did. As he was leaving, after suggesting I should retire for the night, he smiled and said, "Tomorrow make sure you wear your scout shorts around the house. That way your step mom and brother wont see the welt across the back of your legs. Those gym shorts you usually wear aren't long enough to cover it if you bend over.

I just had to know, so I replied, "It's OK then for me to wear shorts around here"? He turned back to me and said, "Yes, for now. I know your friends think you look like a sissy when you wear them, but I like to see your nice strong legs and dirty skinned up knees. As long as I don't think you are using them to augment your sexual desires you may keep them. Otherwise you saw how easy it is to get rid of them." It looked like I was at least going to be able to get some stimulation for the time being from my shorts collection.