My Own Private New Hampshire
|by Derek B.|
Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 27 Feb 2010
Although the story you are about to read is fictional, it had its origin in fact. Unless you are quite young, you probably remember the Michael Fay affair. But in case you don't, here's a short refresher:
Back in 1994, an American teenager named Michael Fay was arrested and convicted in the nation of Singapore for spray painting and egging some cars and for stealing some street signs. The government of Singapore does not take that kind of hooliganism lightly. They imposed what was — at least to my mind — a perfectly sensible sentence. The young miscreant, in addition to a prison term and a stiff fine, was sentenced to be stripped of his clothing, bent over and tied to a wooden A-frame, and whipped full-force across his exposed, quivering buttocks six times with a water-soaked rattan cane. It was not a very unusual sentence by Singaporean standards, and ordinarily such everyday canings don't receive much notice at all, but in this case a whole shitstorm was stirred up.
Apparently, young Michael's parents felt this was a cruel thing to do to their precious little angel, so they complained to President Clinton, who publicly called the punishment extreme and pressured Singapore's government to commute the caning. Joining Clinton and Fay's parents was a whole tiresome chorus of nattering liberals, who rose up in horror at the very thought of beating such a fine young man's bottom. Honestly, the way they prattled on you'd have thought they were proposing to cut the boy's nuts off. They opposed the sentence on the grounds that it would be very painful and that it would be too humiliating for him. Uh, yeah, that's what punishment is supposed to be, people: painful and humiliating.
Boy, were those whiny little pussies shocked when they saw how most Americans reacted to the controversy. They thought Fay deserved to be caned! They thought a good six whacks across his bare butt was exactly what the young man needed. Then, horrifying liberal America even more, many began to suggest that American teenagers here in the U.S. could use some good old-fashioned discipline applied to their rear ends as well. Many people were sick of how young people in this country acted and felt that it was largely because there weren't serious consequences for their misbehavior. They had seen public and private buildings and other property marred by vandals and thought it might not be such a bad idea to similarly mar the young thugs' buttocks in return. At the very least, it might deter others from repeating their crimes, they figured. To that end, a number of state legislatures began considering bills that would authorize some form of corporal punishment for vandals and other lawbreakers.
One of these states was New Hampshire, where a few state senators sponsored a bill they called the Vandalism Act, which proposed punishing vandals by a public spanking on their bare buttocks. Anyone twelve-years or older would be subject to a spanking if they broke this law. The spanking would be administered by the sheriff at or near the scene of the crime, and the boy would have to reimburse the state for any expenses associated with the spanking. This included the cost of printing a notice in the local paper for three consecutive days informing the public of the forthcoming spanking, along with the youngster's name, the location of the public spanking, and what crime they had committed to earn themselves such an ignominious punishment. Now that's what I call justice!
Alas, it never came to pass. In the actual case, Singapore caved in to pressure from President Clinton and reduced Fay's sentence from six lashes to four. Even so, he reportedly didn't take his hiding very well. It was reported that he cried out during his caning, “I'm dying!” Oh, the drama! If he didn't want his butt whipped, he should have behaved himself. That's what I say. On returning to the U.S., he did a number of interviews where he described how much the caning had hurt and how it had left scars on his delicate little butt cheeks. Oh, the poor, poor baby. Give me a fucking break. Meanwhile, in New Hampshire, the Senate never passed the Vandalism Act and the whole thing is now history.
But what if things had worked out differently? What if Singapore had held fast to its principles? What if New Hampshire had passed its law allowing public, bare-bottom spankings? What follows is my fantasy of how that might have played out. It takes place in an alternative New Hampshire, one that exists only in my mind: my own private New Hampshire, if you will. It is the story of a foul-mouthed fifteen-year-old boy named Brad Dietrich who became the first youngster to feel the bite of New Hampshire's new get-tough attitude applied directly to his exposed rear end. It is told from his perspective. I am curious what you think of my swaggering hero. Personally, I think he's a whiny little bitch, but hey, that's just my opinion.
Fuck New Hampshire! They shouldn't have done it. The shit ain't right. I'm fifteen for Christ sake. Fifteen! Everyone saw my naked ass getting beat: my friends, my teachers, the whole fucking town, and then some — everybody!
It's all that fucker Fay's fault. That's what started it all. If his dumb ass hadn't gone and gotten caught spray painting those cars none of this shit would have happened to me. Well, actually, it was his goddamn parents' fault. They had to go whining on and on about it. Fuckers. That's what did it. Yeah and that cocksucker Clinton. He had to go demand that they not cane him. That really set them gooks off. When Fay appealed his sentence, the judge admitted that he had made a mistake, 'cause the other boy involved — the one from Hong Kong — had gotten twelve strokes for the same crime, and that wasn't fair. Fay was sure-as-shit shocked when the judge told him he was doubling his sentence: twelve lashes on his butt! I thought it was so funny at the time. I howled with laughter, picturing him bent over with his naked ass getting whacked with that big-ass stick. Yeah, well fuck, I'm not laughing now. No, I ain't.
So, yeah, it was their fault that I got spanked. They screwed up and I had to pay the price. Where's the fairness in that, hunh?
Then those asshole senators, they went and passed that new law: the Vandalism Act. I heard about it, and I thought it would be awesome if one of the kids at my school were caught and spanked on his bare butt for putting graffiti on something. Yeah, that'd be fucking hilarious, I thought. I'd have been sure to go watch it and laugh at his stupid ass. I had hoped it would have been one of the kids I hate. I'd have loved to watch that dumbass Ryan Grimm getting beat, for instance. He's a big fucking faggot. No, really, he is. In P.E., one time, I caught him checking out my butt in the shower. I gave him a black eye and then punched him in the stomach so many times he was laying on the ground crying. I got suspended for a week for that, but it was worth it. Every time I saw Ryan after that, I called him Crybaby. Ha-ha. Yeah, he deserved to get spanked. You shouldn't look at other guy's butts. It'd have been cool if he'd had to bare his ass for a paddling. Then everyone would have been looking at his butt. That'd teach him.
But even better than Ryan would have been Brenda's older brother, Alex. Brenda's my girlfriend. Uh, well, she was my girlfriend, I should say. Not anymore. No one wants to go out with the kid who got his ass spanked like a little boy. I don't care, though. She's a fucking cunt. Yeah. Well, anyway, Alex is a junior, and he fucking hates me, 'cause I'm going — I mean I was going — with his baby sister. He's always pushing me around and calling me names. I'd have loved to see him get his ass beat. Truth is I'd have thought it was awesome if just about anyone but me had been the one to get paddled. I'd have laughed if Rich or Carl had gotten it on the bare ass, and they're my best friends.
Of course, it wasn't any of those people. It was me. Me! I still can't believe it. But it happened, and I still have the blisters on my ass to remind me of it every time I sit down. Fuck! This is so embarrassing.
How did this happen to me? It was Brenda's father's fault, really. What a motherfucker. He didn't like me seeing Brenda. Alex had told him I was no good, that all I wanted to do was fuck Brenda. Well, of course, I wanted to fuck her. Who the hell wouldn't? Brenda's like the hottest chick in my grade. You'd have to be a faggot not to want to ram your cock up her pussy. But no, these stupid adults think we should just go out for dinner and a movie, and hold hands, and give each other little pecks on the cheeks, like we're living in a fucking movie from the fifties or something.
Yeah, so, it was 'cause of Brenda's asshole dad that she had to sneak out that Friday night. All this wouldn't have happened to me if he'd have just let me fuck his daughter in his house. I mean what's the big fucking deal? You know what I'm saying?
Anyway, we went down to Memorial Park with the vodka I'd stolen from my parent's liquor cabinet. You know, when I think about it, it was kinda my parents fault. Goddamn hippies. They've always let me do whatever I want mostly. I mean, most of the time that's cool, but it'd have really helped me out if they'd have been stricter towards me on just that one weekend.
But they weren't, and that how we found ourselves in the park on a warm night in late May. We were both pretty wasted. And I kept telling her how I loved her and I wanted to stick my giant cock inside her, and she was starting to go along with it. The liquor was loosening that the bitch up. So I kept saying how I loved her, and she said, “Prove it!”
I was like “I can prove it, I'll carve it on that tree over there. 'Brad hearts Brenda.'”
And she said, “Carve it in that stone over there. That'll be more permanent.”
So I took out my pocket knife used it to carve it out. It wasn't very well done. Do you know how hard it is to carve in stone. It's a fucking bitch! I still don't see why everyone made such a big deal about it. You can barely see it till you get right up close. We were laughing and giggling the whole time. But see, it was her idea to do it there. I didn't know it was a monument. It was fucking dark. I just thought I was carving on any dumb stone. So see it was Brenda's fault I got paddled. She's a cunt. That's what she is.
But oh how she melted after I carved my love for her in that rock. She said it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her. I stared kissing her, hot and heavy. God my dick was throbbing. Truth is I've never done a chick, and I was sure that was the night I was going to lose my virginity. I came so close.
I got her jeans and panties off, and we were lying on one of the benches that circle the monument. I undid my belt, then she took over. Dude, let me tell you, she's a total slut when she gets a little drink in her! She undid the top button on my jeans and then unzipped them. I pushed them down to my knees while she grabbed my dick through my boxers. Oh God, my cock was hard. It hurt it was so engorged. She pushed my boxers down as I pulled the condom out of my jeans pocket. Brenda took it eagerly, ripped it open with her teeth, and pushed it onto my cock. God she was randy that night. I got down on top of her, and it was just as I was about to push my dick into her that the flashlight shown in my face.
“All right, kids! Break it up, now,” the cop said.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! So close. I jumped up off Brenda, with my jeans still around my ankles. I flailed my arms around trying to keep my balance. My rock-hard dick flopped around with the condom still stuck on it. I fell backwards, landing smack on my ass. “Ow!” I yelled.
Brenda got up more elegantly, grabbed her panties and jeans, and put them on quickly.
The fucking cop yelled at me, “Jesus Christ, kid! Pull your pants up!”
I was trembling, partly in fear, partly in embarrassment, and partly from the state of sexual excitement I was still in. I grabbed the top of my jeans, pulled them up to my thighs. I tried to get up on my feet so I could pull them all the way up, but I fell back and landed smack on my ass for a second time. FUCK! I tried again, this time leaning forward so I wouldn't fall back. Well that didn't work out so well. My equilibrium was all out of whack from the vodka. I fell forward this time. My nose smacked into the ground. The earthy smell of soil and grass filled my nostrils. My naked ass was stuck up in the air.
“Hey, kid,” the cop asked, “have you been drinking?”
“No, I'm fine,” I said. I was used to drinking and could manage not to slur my words. I finally got up, pulled my jeans and boxers up, and buckled my belt. I stuck my hand down the back of my pants and pulled out some gravel and a twig that was stuck in my ass crack. Then I felt the condom on my deflating cock and quickly stuffed my hand down the front and pulled it off. I threw it on the ground.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” the fucking cop yelled. “You think your little rubber belongs on the ground? Pick that up, NOW!”
Jesus, what an asshole. He didn't have to yell at me. I picked it up and held it out to him.
He folded his arms and glared at me, saying, “I don't want it! Throw it in the trash!” I walked over and tossed the wasted condom in the basket. As I came back, I tripped over a rock and fell down again. Crap.
The cop grabbed my upper arm and yanked me up. He got in my face and said, “You sure you're not drunk?”
“No,” I said without thinking. I should have just shook my head.
The cop closed his eyes. “Whew,” he said. “If you haven't been drinking, boy, then you been using some vodka-flavored mouthwash.” I hung my head. Shit, I was fucked.
Fucking cops, this was all their fault, really. Why can't they just leave us teenagers alone. Why can't I fuck my girlfriend in a park if I want to. I wasn't bothering no one. They should have minded their own goddamn business.
Over the next thirty minutes, a few more cops showed up. They found the discarded empty vodka bottle. They looked at our learner's permits. Then, they arrested us for underage drinking, trespassing after-hours at a state park, and public indecency. As Officer Mahon (the one who found us) put the little plastic-tie cuffs on my wrists, he whispered in my ear, “You're lucky you didn't get your randy little cock inside that girl, or you'd be in even bigger trouble.” He jerked the end of the cuffs, tightening them on my wrists. Ow! That fucking hurt! I'd rather have had the regular adult cuffs.
So they took us back to the station and called our parents. I wasn't worried about my parents. They wouldn't make a big deal of this. Stupid hippies. I'd just tell them how the pressure of being a teenager was too hard on me. My father's a psychiatrist, so I knew he'd fall for that horseshit in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, Brenda's father showed up first. He looked ready to kill me as it was, but after they told him what we had been doing and what they caught me just about to do to his daughter... well... Brenda's father is a big man , a retired Marine, and it took three of those cops to keep the big guy from ripping my head off. What an asshole. What's the big deal, anyway? Brenda's a big girl. She should be able to decide when she wants to spread her legs, right?
My father showed up then, and took me home. In the car he told me he was “very disappointed in me,” and I'm not supposed to be drinking, especially not his stuff, and I'm too young to be having sex. Blah, blah, blah! Like I hadn't heard that stupid crap a thousand times before. I gave him my usual line of excuses. He said he understood, and he knew it was tough being a teenager. What an idiot. Sometimes, I can't believe myself that he buys my shit.
It shouldn't have been a big deal. I'd been in trouble before, but that's the great thing about being a teenager: you can do whatever the fuck you want and they ain't gonna do anything to you. I'd been caught shoplifting a couple times, but that was no big thing. I just had to return the stuff and say I was sorry. Last summer, I broke into my next-door-neighbor Mr. Hanson's house when he was away. I broke his window and stole some camera equipment. Like an idiot, I left my fingerprints everywhere. I won't make that mistake again. I'd have just returned the stuff, but I'd been playing with it and, well, I broke most all of it. I pled guilty and they gave me probation. I had to pay — well, Dad had to pay — Mr. Hanson to replace his equipment. They did make me go over and replace his window. I hated that, 'cause that fucking faggot stared at me the whole time. I mean he was staring at my body like a fucking pervert. My Dad says there's nothing wrong with being gay, but I think it's gross. Guy's shouldn't be looking at my junk and my ass and getting off on what they want to do to it. That's sick!
So yeah, I pretty much do what I want, and those suckers let me, for the most part. But this time it all went wrong. Yeah, it went really wrong. The day after we were arrested, seventy-year-old Mrs. McAllister went to the park and saw where I'd carved “Brad hearts Brenda” on the monument. Fucking old bat. It was her fault more than anyone else, now that I think about it. Apparently she was married to one of the people whose names are carved there. But that was like ages ago. So, I mean, who cares? She reported it to the police, and, of course, they had our names, so they knew one of us had done it. Brenda cut a deal. They said they'd drop the charges against her if she implicated me.
Justice is quick in a Podunk town like mine. They were ready to take me to trial that Monday. It was a simple case. The prosecutor told my attorney that if I pled to the vandalism, they would drop the other charges. So we took the deal. They couldn't spank me — or so I thought — 'cause the Vandalism Act didn't allow spankings on the first offence.
There were quite a few people in the courtroom: that bitch McAllister; Brenda and her fuckwad brother Alex and their father (at least he seemed a little calmer today); the cops, including Officer Mahon; and — hey! — my leering homo neighbor. What the fuck's he doing here? I thought.
I entered my plea and the judge asked the lawyers for sentencing suggestions. I was totally fucking shocked when the prosecutor said I should be publicly spanked in accordance with the new law. My attorney objected, but the prosecutor brought up my previous conviction for breaking and entering. He said breaking the window counted as vandalism under the law. My attorney said it didn't count since it had been under the old statute. They argued back and forth over this, with the judge asking both of them questions. Then the judge declared a ten-minute recess while he consulted the law.
That was a long fucking ten minutes. I was about ready to piss myself at just the thought of being spanked in front of everyone on my bare ass. The judge came back in and said that indeed I could be spanked. He went into a long legal explanation, but I didn't hear a word. I was too busy shaking in fear. This is un-fucking-believable! I kept thinking. I turned and looked around at the people seated. My parents were looking down in disbelief. Mrs. McAllister just sat there with the same severe look she always had. My neighbor looked excited. Fuck me. Brenda's father looked smug. Brenda, the fucking traitor cunt, looked at the floor. Her big-asshole brother wore the fucking biggest grin. Man this sucks.
But my ass wasn't hamburger yet. The judge did say that the statute stipulated that a jury of twelve had to sentence me and that it had to be unanimous. A jury was convened and since my guilt was already established they went right to the penalty phase.
The prosecutor called Mrs. McAllister who explained how her husband had served and died in World War II (Is that the one where we fought the British and the Indians? Oh fuck, who cares?), and how that monument was erected in honor of him and the other twenty men who had died from our town in that war. Then she said that I disgraced his memory and the memory of the other men who died, and that I deserved to have my ass whipped right off me. What a bitch. I mean, God, who cares about some war from over seventy years ago, right? My attorney didn't cross-examine her at all. Johnnie Cochran he ain't. I couldn't believe the very skin on my ass depended on this hack. Then they called a few more of those stupid veterans, who all basically said the same thing.
My attorney called my father. He just talked about how I was really a good kid. I was just misunderstood. All the usual clap-trap. But hey, if it got me off.... Thing was, if I was having a hard time buying his shit, how was the jury gonna believe it?
Then I took the stand. I tried to look all nice and sweet. I explained how it was just a mistake, how I hadn't known it was a monument or anything. I said I hadn't meant to offend anyone. I had just wanted to show my girlfriend how much I loved her. I looked at the jury and put on my saddest face. As humiliating as it was for me to do, I begged them to show me mercy and not to let them spank my naked butt in front of everyone. I told them how embarrassing it would be for me to have everyone I knew see me all vulnerable, being beaten like a naughty little boy. I was practically crying as I spoke.
The prosecutor then cross-examined me. It was awful. He brought up the alcohol and what I had been just about to do to Brenda when the cops found us. He pointed out that I sounded more like a boy who wanted to get laid than a boy in love. He had me there, I have to admit, but, of course I stuck to my story. He asked me about my prior convictions. He said it indicated I had a problem with authority. You think? Of course I have a problem with authority. Who likes to have people always telling you what to do? Fuck them. Fuck them all! I wanted to sock him and the judge in their big fat noses as it was. I still do. It's their fucking fault I got paddled. Oh and my dumbass hack lawyer. What a fucking prize. I can't believe my father paid all that fucking money to that guy and I still got my ass whipped. We should sue the motherfucker.
Speaking of my asshole lawyer, he got up to make his closing. He told the jury how I might suffer mental anguish from my spanking. That a beating could upset my delicate sensibilities. He said that I could do community service or pay a fine instead. Yeah, I could do that, I thought . My Dad would pay whatever they asked, and I could do some stuff around town — I mean, as long as it wasn't too hard and didn't interfere with my free time or nothing.
The prosecutor made his final argument. He portrayed me as an out-of-control, defiant teenager who had proven that gentler methods were not enough. He said, — I'll never forget his words — “Brad Dietrich needs this spanking. He needs to be taught that actions have serious consequences. Even though he doesn't know it yet, he will be a better person if you see to it that he gets a paddle smacked into his rear again and again and again. And yes, it needs to be public. Shame is good. It will teach him the lesson a lot better than a private whipping would. I encourage you to give him the maximum allowable sentence: ten strokes of the paddle on his bare buttocks. Do it for the fallen soldiers who have been disrespected. Do it out of respect for law and order. Do it to deter other juveniles from committing similar crimes. But most if all, do it for young Brad. He is crying out to be spanked. This teenager's future is in your hands. Don't let him down. Give. Him. The. Paddle.”
God, I could have died. I was so red in the face. Everyone was talking about spanking my naked butt. Jesus, It was just fucking awful.
The judge addressed the jury next: “You have two questions to answer on the jury sheet. First, is whether the defendant should be spanked publicly on his bare buttocks.” The judge sure liked saying the word buttocks. He enunciated it each time like it was two separate words: butt tocks. “Second, if you decide he should be spanked publicly on his bare buttocks, you need to determine how many strokes his bare buttocks should receive. You may go with anything from 1 to 10. The severity of his punishment should be determined by how serious you feel the crime was and by how contrite you feel the defendant is for having committed it. If you find that he does not deserve a public spanking on his bare buttocks, I will have no choice, under the law, than to find an alternative punishment like a fine or community service.”
The jury went to their room to deliberate. They were there the rest of the day. My lawyer said that was a good thing; the longer they took, the more likely they wouldn't paddle me. It would take all twelve to return a spanking recommendation, he reminded me. The courthouse closed at five, but the judge allowed the jury to continue deliberations and even ordered dinner for them. At nine, with no decision made, the judge sent the jury home and told everyone to return at nine a.m. on Tuesday.
I was feeling better. Surely there was one rational person on that jury who wouldn't let them beat me. They had to realize it was barbaric. I mean we don't do this kinda thing to people anymore, do we?
The jury continued to deliberate all Tuesday morning. They broke for lunch. The waiting was getting to me. At this point all I wanted was to know one way or another. As if the fates heard my wish, thirty minutes after they returned from lunch the jury sent a note saying they had reached a unanimous decision.
The jury filed in and took their seats. I few of them looked right at me. Good, I thought. I had read somewhere that jurors don't look at condemned defendants. The foreman passed the verdict to the judge, who read it and returned it to the foreman. My heart was pounding.
“Will the defendant please rise?” the judge said. Me and the attorneys stood.
A few more formalities: “Has the jury reached a unanimous decision?” the judge asked.
“We have, your honor,” the foreman said.
“How do you find?” he asked.
Here it comes, I said to myself
“We the jury recommend that the defendant, Bradley Aaron Dietrich, be sentenced to receive ten strokes with a paddle on his bare buttocks in public,” the foreman said to my horror.
No. Oh God, no. NOOOOO! I screamed inside my head. This just isn't happening. It can't be. Not only did they give me the paddle, they gave me the maximum. My knees were buckling and my body trembled in utter terror. Fuck me.
That fucker Brenda's father put his hands together and started clapping loudly. Some others joined him. The judge banged his gavel, silencing them. My lawyer asked that the jury be polled. This was so if a single juror changed his or her mind it gave me one last out, so it was in my interest. Still, it was horrible listening to twelve people one after the other confirm my sentence by repeating the words, “Ten strokes of the paddle to his bare buttocks in public.” I wanted to die.
I had only one last chance. The judge said, “The jury has made its sentencing recommendation, however I have the power to set that aside if I feel it is excessive.” He paused for a few seconds as I clenched my bladder muscles, praying I wouldn't piss myself. “But, I see no reason to do that in this case.” Fuck. That's it. I am royally screwed, I thought. He looked right at me as he said, “Your actions, young man, were reprehensible and deserve the harshest possible sanction that this court can hand down. I therefore sentence you, Bradley Aaron Dietrich, on Saturday next, to be taken by the sheriff of this county to Memorial Park; to have your pants and underwear lowered to your ankles, exposing your buttocks; to be bent over for maximum exposure of said buttocks; and to be struck upon said bare buttocks ten times. May god have mercy on you, young man, though I sincerely hope the sheriff shows none to your buttocks.” Then he banged his gavel, making me jump.
He instructed the sheriff to write up a public announcement that would be printed in the local paper letting everyone know about my spanking, where they could witness it, and why I was receiving it. I just stood there continuing to shake. I just couldn't believe what was happening to me. I still can't.
Then he said to my parents, “I am releasing Bradley into your custody. The sheriff will pick him up at 11 a.m. Saturday. Please be sure he is ready.” My father said he would do so. Then he told my parents that I had to reimburse the state for the expenses associated with my punishment, including printing the announcement. Since I was a minor, however, my parents would get the bill.
As I walked out of the courthouse with my parents, I was still in a state of shock. A lady snapped a picture of me. I didn't find out till the next day, when I was in the grocery store with my Mom and we walked by the newspapers, that the lady was a photographer with the New York Post. There on the front page was my shocked face, and above it was the blazing headline: SPOILED BRAD! The subhed read: Fifteen-Year-Old Will Be First Spanked Under NH Vandalism Act. And next to it was the Union Leader. It had my school picture from last year, the one where I looked like a total dork. They used my monogram to make a bad pun in their headline: B.A.D. BOY TO BE SPANKED! The subhed: Saturday's Paddling at Memorial Park Will Be Open to the Public.
Worst of all, though, was the public announcement, which ran in the local paper on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday:
BRADLEY AARON DIETRICH, AGED 15, INVITES YOU TO WAR MEMORIAL PARK, ON SATURDAY, JUNE 7TH, AT 12 NOON, TO WITNESS THE EXECUTION OF HIS PUNISHMENT, CONSISTING OF 10 STROKES WITH A PADDLE APPLIED TO HIS BARE AND EXPOSED BUTTOCKS FOR DEFACING THE W.W. II MEMORIAL. CAMERAS AND VIDEO RECORDING EQUIPMENT ARE PERMITTED.
The whole thing was so goddamn humiliating. School was the worst. Everyone snickered when I walked by. No one wanted to sit near me at lunch. Some of the really evil kids said shit to me to jack me up. “I bet it'll hurt a lot.” “Are you gonna cry?” “I can't wait to see you get spanked like a little boy.” I wished I could just crawl into a hole and die. Rich and Carl even made fun of me. I begged them not to come on Saturday, but Rich said, “Yeah, I'll be there.” And Carl added, “I wouldn't miss this for the world!”
The news talked of little else, even CNN. My ass was a fucking sensation, a phenomenon! Everyone was talking about it. How red would it be? Would there be blisters? Would I cry? There was no escape. My father talked to anyone who wanted an interview, peddling his psychobabble. He said it was wrong to spank a child. That there were better ways to punish. That reasoning with me would be more effective. I know he was just protecting me, but honestly, he was just making things worse. The more he tried to shield me, the more like a baby I looked.
I spent most of my time hiding in my room. I watched T.V. and played video games but I couldn't get my fast-approaching paddling out of my mind. Most of my friends' parents would have taken their T.V.s and game consoles, but Dad thinks teenagers need an outlet for their frustrations. Whatever.
The big day was there before I knew it. I hadn't been able to get to sleep the night before till very late; I just laid there, my stomach roiling. There was no escape. I thought about how I was going to handle all this. The important thing was not to cry. That would be totally humiliating. If I could just bend over and act like it was no big deal that they were popping my ass, then people would at least have respect for me. I had to strike a balance between acting like I was eager or happy about being spanked and looking like a total pussy. I needed to work on looking tough but accepting.
I finally went to sleep around 5 or 6 in the morning. The next thing I remember is my father shaking me awake. It was 10:30. Shit. The sheriff would be there in half an hour. Hurriedly, I picked out some clothes. What do you wear to your own spanking? There isn't an etiquette book for that. I didn't want to show up all prim and proper like a good little boy, but I didn't want to look like a total punk either. I picked out some regular-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt. When in doubt, go classic, right?
I took off my boxers (that's all I sleep in), and got in the shower. I let the warm water pour over my naked body for a while. It felt good. I had a feeling nothing was going to be feeling good for a while, so I might as well enjoy it for now. I shampooed my hair, rinsed it, and put in the conditioner. I took a bar of soap and began to rub it all over my body. I scrubbed really good. It's not every day that the whole town's going to see your naked body; it might as well be clean. I scrubbed my cock and balls and butt crack really good. I didn't want anyone saying I smelled down there.
I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel and dried off. I looked at myself in the mirror. My body is still developing, but I think I still look pretty hot. My chest and arms are a little thin, but my wavy hair and my deep-brown, bedroom eyes made up for my shortcomings. Plus I have a million-dollar smile, not that there was much to smile about that day. My best feature was my ass. It stuck out, smooth and perfectly round. I think they call it a bubble-butt. I always saw girls and sometimes boys watching it. I took pride in it. But today of course people were taking a different kind of interest in my ass, one that brought me shame instead. God, this fucking sucks, I frowned.
My cock was about average for my age, despite how I had bragged about its hugeness to Brenda, but it looked good. I had seen other boys' dicks in gym class and I knew a lot of them just looked weird. Mine could be a model, if there is such a thing as a penis model. I just hoped it would get bigger as I got older. I tugged at it a little. I felt nothing. I hadn't been aroused since the night of my arrest with Brenda. I was just so nervous and scared. It had been over a week since I had spanked my monkey, the longest I had gone since I hit puberty.
I picked up my hairbrush and pulled it through my unruly hair. I jumped as I heard a knock at the front door. Fuck, sheriff's here. I ran to my room, put the hairbrush on the nightstand, and started pulling my clothes on.
“Brad, honey?” my Mom called, “your ride is here.”
My ride. Yeah, well it was gonna be a ride, that's for sure. “I'll be right down, Mom,” I called.
When I came down the steps, the sheriff was waiting at the bottom.
“Hi, Bradley!” he said with a big grin, “Are you ready for your spanking, young man?”
What kinda question was that for fuck's sake? I folded my arms defiantly and said, “I guess I don't have a choice, do I?”
The sheriff crouched down till he was eye level with me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Listen to me, smarty-pants. I am the one who will be slamming that paddle into your rear end in just a little while. I don't think you want to piss me off. I have a lot of say in just how hard that paddle hits you.”
He stopped talking and just glared at me, daring me to make another snide comment. I wanted to curse the smug fuck out. I wanted to kick him in his fucking teeth. But I knew he was right; I would regret that. I tried to stare him down, but I lasted only a few seconds. I swallowed the rising lump in my throat and looked down at the floor, utterly defeated. Fuck.
“Now I want to hear an apology, Bradley,” he said
Fuck. Fuck. This is just too much. I struggled with my pride for a few seconds, but I couldn't get up the nerve to stand up to the big man. “I'm sorry,” I muttered, staring at the floor.
The sheriff tousled my hair with a grin and said, “That's better. Now turn and face the wall.”
I did and the sheriff grabbed my wrists and tied them with the plastic kiddie cuffs. God I hated those things. They dug into your wrists something fierce.
“We'll see you at the park, Brad,” my father said. Christ, did they have to come, I thought.
The sheriff guided me out the door and down the walk to his car. The press, lined along the street, snapped pictures and recorded video. The sheriff pushed my head down as he guided me into the back seat. He said, “Have a seat here next to your little friend.”
Little friend? What was he talking about? As I sat down, though, I looked in the other seat and saw a huge wooden paddle lying there. God, I didn't realize it was going to be so big. It was probably two feet long and six inches wide and... well, it was a thick mother-fucking piece of wood. It had two lines of six holes drilled into it. I couldn't imagine what the fuck they were for, but I doubted it was for my pleasure.
The sheriff flipped on the siren and we took off. Officer Mahon was in the passenger seat. He said, “You and Mr. Paddle are going to get to know each other intimately in a few minutes.”
I ignored him and looked out the windows. The whole fucking media was following us. It looked like a goddamn caravan. I heard a helicopter over head. Holy shit, I thought, I'm O.J.!
Except O.J. got off, I reminded myself. Lucky bastard.
As we approached the park, there was a serious traffic jam. Everyone had come to see me get my butt whacked. It looked like a festival. Oh my fucking God, there are actually concession stands set up! As the traffic cops cleared the way for us, I got a better and better view of the scene. There were people everywhere. Many had binoculars. As we got closer, I saw more and more cameras and video recorders.
The car came to a stop and we walked the rest of the way. Mahon had me by the arm, guiding me, while the sheriff held the paddle. They had roped off a walkway for us with police tape. Someone yelled, “Give him hell!” The sheriff just nodded at the man, grimly. People laughed and pointed at me, I had a slight fear that someone might throw something at me. I found out later, though, that the police had set down a zero-tolerance policy for riotous behavior. Anyone acting in a disorderly way would be thrown out of the park. No one wanted to miss seeing me get spanked, so they were all on their best behavior.
We approached the monument. On the benches, were old men in uniform, veterans of WW II, I learned later, who had priority seating to see my butt get tanned. Some were in wheelchairs. One of the benches was empty, and I wondered what that was about.
I looked around at the crowd. I saw most of my classmates, some teachers, some of the clerks from the grocery store. I saw Brenda's dad and her brother and — oh fuck — there was Brenda. This was so not the way I wanted her to see me naked. And then — holy shit — I saw my faggot neighbor. He was right up front with a video camera. Fucking shit! I can't believe this. That is so not right. He was so close I could see the hard-on in his pants. I looked at the video camera. Motherfucker, that's top of the line. You get perfect sound and picture quality with that shit. This is so fucking unfair. And then I realized he had bought that equipment with the money my father had paid him to replace the shit I had stolen and broken. Fucking karma.
They guided me up to the empty bench, then turned me around so my back was to it. There was this big cage thing they were spinning, and some woman was pulling tickets out of it. A man was reading the numbers off the tickets. They were giving out prizes. Someone won a gift certificate, another a cruise. Then, the guy announced that they were drawing for the grand prize. He read the numbers off the final ticket and some kid ran out of the crowd yelling, “I won! I won!” Hey, that's Crybaby, I thought, as I realized it was that little faggot Ryan Grimm that I had beat up a while back. I wondered what he had won.
“Congratulations, young man,” the announcer said after verifying his ticket, “go on over to the officers and get your prize.”
With a big shit-eating grin, Ryan practically skipped over to us and handed the sheriff his ticket. Officer Mahon gripped my arm just a bit harder.
“It's time for young Bradley to lose his pants,” the sheriff said, “You have won the right to do the honors. Would you pull down Brad's jeans, please?”
No way! No fucking way! Ryan Grimm is going to pull my pants down? Oh my God, he is!
“My pleasure,” Ryan said, with a nervous giggle. Then turning to me, he said, “Hey, Brad! Nice to see you, buddy.” Then he rubbed his hands together eagerly.
“Hey, wait. You can't let him do this,” I pleaded. “This isn't right.”
“Now, Brad,” the sheriff said, “he won the right to undress you fair and square. There's no use complaining.”
Ryan got down on his knees and grabbed my belt buckle. He undid the buckle. My heart felt like it was going to jump right out of my chest. This is not happening. It's not fucking happening! With both ends of my belt now hanging loosely on either side of my crotch, Ryan grabbed the top of my jeans and undid the button. Then, he grabbed my zipper and very slowly pulled it down, exposing the front of my boxers and my little bulge. He stared at my bulge for a minute and licked his lips.
I was in a panic now. My arms were pinned, but I could still move my legs. I started kicking and screaming. Mahon twisted my arm. “OWW! THAT FUCKING HURTS!” I protested.
“Listen, Bradley,” he said, “Ryan's going to pull your pants down and you're going to cooperate. If we need to, we'll get a few more of Ryan's buddies to come over and keep your legs still. Do you want that?”
“No,” I said, sulkily.
“Also,” he continued, “there is to be no cursing. There are little kids here to watch you get spanked, and we don't want them to hear your foul mouth. If you continue to mouth off, we are prepared to gag you. Understand?”
I stood there trying to collect myself. I knew I had no choice. The microphone was carrying our whole conversation across the park. “I understand,” I said.
“Good boy,” Mahon said, as the crowd laughed.
God that was embarrassing. I was trying so hard not to cry. Christ, Brad, I said to myself, they haven't even hit you yet.
“You may continue, Ryan,” Mahon said.
Ryan grabbed my jeans by the sides and pulled them to my ankles. My whole body shook. I was in a state of panic, but there was nothing I could do. I wanted to kick Ryan right in his gonads, but I kept talking myself out of that, 'cause I knew that wasn't gonna get me out of anything. Remain calm, I kept telling myself. Show them you can take it.
“Very well done, Ryan,” the sheriff praised. “Now please remove Brad's underwear.”
Ryan wrapped his arms around my waist and slipped his hands under the waistband of my boxers. His hands were on my ass. He gave my mounds a little squeeze. My mouth opened a little in shock. Then he pulled the back of my shorts down, just enough to expose my tender cheeks to the air. A lump rose in my throat. Crap. Don't cry. Please, no. I swallowed hard. One single tear squeezed its way out of my eye and rolled down my cheek. The front of my boxers still covered my boyhood, however a little patch of pubic hair peeked out from above the waistband. Ryan brought his hands to my front and slipped them in the front end. As he pulled my shorts down, he rubbed his hands against my penis. This is just not fucking fair. Ryan Grimm gets to molest me while everyone watches approvingly.
Ryan stood up. I felt completely ridiculous standing there with my limp penis and butt hanging out for everyone to look at. The sheriff said, “Excellent work, Ryan. Everyone please give this young man a round of applause. The crowd erupted in cheers and clapped. Ryan took a bow. What a motherfucker. This just ain't right. If my pants hadn't been around my ankles, I would have kicked him right in the ass.
But things were about to get worse. Ryan stood to the side (he remained there for my whole punishment), while Mahon spun me around so I faced the monument with the top of the bench at about crotch level. Mahon pushed me so I was bent over the back of the bench. He went around to the other side and held me down from there by my cuffed wrists. I realized this was the same bench I had tried to fuck Brenda on. My nose was right where our crotches had been as we had came so close to fucking. I raised my head and saw my crude carving on the monument: “Brad hearts Brenda.”
Shit, I thought, All this and I didn't even get to fuck her.
A breeze blew in. I felt it whoosh up my crack and tickle my balls. God, I felt exposed.
“Bradley Aaron Dietrich,” the announcer said into the mike, “you have been sentenced to be punished here in the presence of the good people of this town whom you have offended. Your punishment is ten strokes of the paddle upon your bare buttocks. The state is ready to execute your punishment. Sheriff, you may proceed as soon as you are ready.”
Suddenly, I felt the paddle pressed up against my ass. I could feel each little hole digging into my meaty rump. I was starting to get an idea what those holes were for.
The sheriff lifted the back of my T-shirt up and pulled it towards my head, exposing the small of my back.
Christ, I thought, how long are they going to drag this shit out? I wish they would just get it over wi—
And like that, my wait was over. The paddle knocked the wind out of me. I felt nothing for half a second, then a slow burning feeling seared the skin of my ass. The pain was unbelievable. It really fucking hurt. I wanted to grab my ass and rub the fire off it, but Mahon had my cuffed hands pinned firmly to my upper back. I wanted to scream, but I was in so much pain my brain couldn't get it together enough for me to even cry out.
Oh god. The paddle slammed into me again. The holes bit into my flesh as if twelve angry hornets had landed in two straight lines upon my ass and stung me simultaneously. “YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” I screamed as I found my voice. Fuck this shit. They shouldn't do this to a fifteen-year-old boy. I felt a lump in my throat. No, no, don't cry.
That did it. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I wailed at the unfairness of it all. I couldn't see what was happening to my ass of course, but later I did get to see video of it on CNN as they replayed it over and over again on every show. My ass flattened with each blow, then bounced back like a rubber ball, as if it was eager for the next smack.
I was struggling now. Mahon had a firm grip on me though. If he hadn't, I would have been up, kicking my shoes and pants off my ankles, and then running out of the park wearing nothing but my T-shirt, my dick flopping, and my red ass pumping my legs as they carried me as far as I could get from this fucking place. But instead here I remained as the sheriff lined up the next stroke.
Oh god, halfway there, and it wasn't getting any easier to take. The pain that had started on the skin of my ass with the first blow and engulfed my whole ass with the second had worked its way through my whole body so that now everything felt like it was on fire. Each time he hit me I could feel it even in my fingertips and toes.
Each blow knocked the wind out of me, momentarily stopping my otherwise constant sobbing. So much for showing everyone how brave I was. The pretense was gone. I forgot about the crowd standing around watching. I forgot about Ryan grinning next to me with a raging boner. I forgot my neighbor recording every smack of my ass to watch later in slow-mo as he pleasured himself. I had even forgotten about my nakedness. My life had, in a matter of a minute, come to consist of only two things: my ass and the paddle, my ass and the paddle.
My pride was gone. When I found my voice, I swallowed the welling screams, sucked up my snot, and began to beg and plead, anything to make it stop. “P-p-p-p-please! I-I-I'll be good. I pro–,”
My screaming reached a new higher pitch, like I was going through puberty in reverse. “No, Oh god, no! I can't take it. I'm sorry. I'm really sorr–,”
Shit! Shit! I wasn't even sure what number I was up to at that point. I could only think of the burn in my ass and the redness in my swollen eyes. “I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY,” I screamed, hoping for mercy. “I know it was wrong. I won't do it again. Please just st–,”
“AAAAAAAGH!” I let out, forlornly. “Please, please, stop!” I continued to beg.
“That's it, Brad. It's over.” Mahon said as he helped me to stand up straight. A wave of relief flooded over me. I continued to sob at a slightly lower pitch as the relief mixed with the pain and the returning realization that I was standing there with my little limp penis and a bright red bottom on display for all the world to see. The assembly erupted in applause. God, I was humiliated. My face felt almost as red as my ass.
A doctor came over and checked me all over. He pushed and prodded at the skin on my ass and took my vitals. My parents walked over to check on me. “Are you all right, Brad?” Dad asked. I was afraid I would embarrass myself further if I opened my mouth, so I just nodded.
The doctor said to my folks, “Brad should recover just fine. The tears will stop in a few minutes. His buttocks will be red and swollen for a few days. I am writing a prescription for a cream that will help it heal and prevent scarring.” He ripped off the Rx and handed it to my Dad. “He will be in some pain today, and sore for a few days after that. I could write a prescription for that, but you could probably just use over-the-counter stuff.”
With my hands still pinned behind my back and my pants at my ankles, Mahon led me, shuffling, around the bench and turned me to face its front. The crowd was dispersing somewhat , but a few remained to leer at my nakedness. What a bunch of perverts. Mr. Hanson was still there running his video equipment.
My Dad told me he was going to drop Mom off at home and go fill my prescription. He left as a few workers brought over a plaque and affixed it to the back of the bench. It read:
UPON THIS BENCH, ON THE SEVENTH DAY OF JUNE, 1997, BRADLEY AARON Dietrich, AGE 15, RECEIVED TEN STROKES OF A PADDLE TO HIS BARE BUTTOCKS FOR VANDALISING THE WORLD WAR II MEMORIAL.
Great, I thought, now my fucking humiliation is a part of park history.
It took a while for them to affix it to the bench. When it was done, the sheriff told Ryan to pull my pants back up. “Aw! Do I have to.” he asked, with an exaggerated sad face. “We can't just leave him like this for a bit longer?”
The sheriff smiled, “No, son. Get on with it.”
Ryan once more knelt before me. His nose was practically in my crotch. He grabbed the waistband of my boxers and yanked them up halfway over my ass. He stretched the waistband out and let it go with a snap. He giggled as it snapped against my sore flesh. He pulled them the rest of the way up, but not without coping another feel of my swollen ass cheeks. The front of the waistband was still held down by my cock and balls, which Ryan allowed to continue to hang out as he pulled my jeans back up. He let the jeans hang, held up only by the protrusion of my butt. He grabbed my cock — yes, grabbed it — and stuffed it in my boxers. He rubbed the head back and forth a few times as he stuffed it in. Then Ryan zipped me up and buckled my belt, while getting one last feel of my junk.
He stood up and said, with a big grin, “Gee, Brad, that was great fun. That raffle ticket was the best dollar I ever spent. I hope you get in trouble again soon. I'll see you around school, Crybaby.” This is so fucking unfair, I thought.
The cops marched me back to their car and buckled me back into the back seat. The sheriff laid the paddle back on the seat beside me. They took a different way back to my house, a long, windy, bumpy road. Every time we hit a bump, the car bounced me up and down, slamming my sore butt into the seat. The fucking cops laughed.
“From my angle, Brad,” Mahon said, “I couldn't get a good view of your spanking. Fortunately your neighbor Mr. Hanson invited me and the sheriff over to watch his video. I'm really looking forward to it.”
Great. Just fucking great. Is there no end to my humiliation?
Back at the house, I was marched back inside and the sheriff finally cut off my cuffs and left to go next door for the viewing of the video. Mom gave me a bowl of soup. I slurped it up eagerly while shifting uncomfortably on the hard dining-room chair. Dad got back from the pharmacy with my butt cream just as I was finishing my soup.
“Brad, I want to talk to you upstairs in your room,” he said.
What the fuck's this about, I wondered
When we got up to my bedroom, he sat on my bed and told me to sit in the chair next to my desk. I almost objected to having to sit my raw bottom on the hard chair but thought better of it. I sat down with a grimace.
“Brad,” he said, “as you know I have always been an advocate against corporal punishment.” I nodded. “But I have to say watching your reaction to being spanked today has made me reconsider my position.” I think my heart stopped. This is not happening, I thought. But it was. “I have tried for the last two years since you became a teenager, and even to some extent the years preceding, to teach you right from wrong with a loving and understanding hand. I have come to the conclusion, however, from what I witnessed today, that what you have always really needed was a firm hand keeping you in line.”
“Wait a fucking minute, Dad,” I interrupted. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying, son, that we are going to try something new around here,” he said simply. “Every time you act out and misbehave from now on you are going to receive a spanking. And if you keep talking to me with that kind of language you are going to find out just how serious I am about this.” He paused to let that sink in. Every time I thought this day couldn't get any worse, it did.
This was just too much. I had been asked to accept a lot this day, but this was just too fucking much. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, as I tried to keep my anger in check. “Dad, you can't do this. Take my T.V. and my video games, ground me, but you can't spank me. I am too old for that.”
“Yesterday, I would have agreed with you, Brad. But what I saw today was a boy who could learn respect. I saw a possibility in you today. I saw a child who could become a responsible young man if he were guided in the right way. And what you need to guide you, apparently, is a good firm smack to your bottom when you step out of line.”
“Dad, no, please don't do this,” I begged.
“When I am finished here I am going to buy a paddle for you. I got the number for the company that made the paddle they used on you today from the sheriff . So, I think you better just get used to the idea.”
My mouth just hung open for a minute. I scanned Dad's face looking for some sign that he was just fucking with me, that this was just his idea of a funny joke, but I saw nothing. He was serious. I couldn't keep my anger and panic down any longer. I jumped out of my seat and exploded.
“FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! YOU CAN'T FUCKING HIT ME. YOU'RE MY DAD FOR FUCK'S SAKE!”
My Dad remained calm. He said quietly, “I warned you there would be consequences if you kept using that language towards me. You have earned yourself a spanking, Brad. Come over here and lay over my knee.”
“You can't be fucking serious, Dad!” I protested. “They just got finished blistering my ass!” The possibilities were running through my mind. I knew there was no way my Dad could force me to do this. I was too big. I could fight him off. There was just no fucking way I was going to let him spank me.
“I am serious, Brad. Right now, I am only going to spank you with my hand, but if you keep making this more difficult, I may try a belt instead. If you don't submit to this, I will call the officers. They're just next door at Mr. Hanson's. They could bring that paddle for me to use, since I don't have your new one yet.”
“You're not serious,” I asked, fearing he was.
“I am. If you really make this difficult, the officers and I can drag you onto the front yard and give the media another show. How would you like that?” he asked rhetorically. “No more stalling, Brad. Come over here for your spanking.”
I was screwed. There was no way out. There were no good options. There was no way I could take another session with that paddle, and I definitely didn't want the second thrashing of my life to be public like the first. In a matter of one minute, Dad had made the over-the-knee spanking my best choice. I walked over to Dad's side trembling. I was scared shitless, but nowhere near as scared as I was at what he said next.
“First, Brad, you need to strip.”
Oh God, no! I bit my lip and stuttered hoarsely, “N-n-n-o way. You c-c-c-an't do this to me naked!”
“Yes, I can, and I will. I think having your body exposed and your privacy violated was an important part of why your spanking was so effective. Do I have to call Mr. Hanson and the officers? Maybe they could call your little buddy Ryan over to help you get undressed again. He seemed to enjoy it.”
Shit! Shit! I had no choice. This was unbelievable. I made one last attempt to keep my pants on. “Please, Daddy,” I begged. I hadn't called him “Daddy” in about ten years, but I was desperate. I'd have called him Sweet Daddy Sugar Tits at that point if that would have saved me.
“Clothes off, now,” he said, quietly but firmly.
I knew I needed to get to stripping but I couldn't quite get my hands to do it. After waiting about five seconds, Dad reached for the phone next to my bed.
“O.K.! O.K.!” I said. “Don't call them, Dad.” He put the phone back as I pulled my shirt off and kicked off my shoes. With shaking hands, I undid my belt and pushed my pants and boxers to my ankles in one motion. As much as I hated having Ryan strip me earlier, it was in some ways worse to be forced to go through the motions yourself. I got on the floor to get my pants, boxers, and socks off. I winced as my sore ass rubbed against the bedroom carpet. My disrobing complete, I stood back up and my Dad patted his knee. I laid across his lap, feeling totally exposed. My cock rubbed against my father's thigh. God this is fucking humiliating, I thought.
My father wasted no time laying into me. I was surprised by the power of his smacks.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
My ass was sizzling within the first minute. I couldn't take it, I put my hands back to cover my poor ass. Dad calmly threatened to call next door. I removed my hands without hesitation. The onslaught continued.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
His smacks were no match for the power of the paddle, of course, but there were many more of them and my ass was already sore from its earlier experience. I bucked my hips, slamming my limp dick against my Dad's thigh. God, how embarrassing. I clenched and unclenched my butt cheeks but nothing made it tolerable.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
After about five minutes, he stopped and let me rest a second. Then he picked up the hairbrush from my nightstand.
He said, “This thing has always been pretty good at controlling your unruly hair, I bet it'll be pretty good at controlling your unruly attitude too.”
He drove that little piece of wood into my ass over and over. It made a little “pop” with each smack.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
This pushed me right over the edge. I sobbed and sobbed as tears streamed down my face and dripped onto the carpet.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
He beat the back of that wooden hairbrush deep into my flesh. There is nothing like the feeling of wood smacking against freshly blistered skin. Not to mention, he was raising a whole set of new blisters.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
I was beside myself. I was crying uncontrollably. Between sobs I begged him to stop, I promised to be good. I continued to kick and scream, trying to find some way to put out the fire in my rear end.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
The fight in me was gone. I stopped kicking and yelling. I just laid there and softly sobbed as Dad continued to pop my ass
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
POP!... POP!... POP!
Finally he stopped.
“If you don't want to get the hairbrush again, I suggest you strip when I tell you to. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” I bleated. It just came out of me. I felt like such a whore rewarding him with my “yes, sir!” for beating my butt.
“Good boy,” he said. He then gathered up my video games, my T.V., my stereo, and even my phone. “You can have these back when you learn how to behave yourself. Also, I am suspending your allowance. It will be going to cover the expenses your spanking incurred, and you will be mowing lawns and doing jobs for the neighbors to help pay your debt off as well. Don't worry, Brad, you'll learn to behave yourself, eventually. I have faith in you.” With that, he left the room.
I laid there for about thirty minutes on my stomach sniffling and feeling sorry for myself. My life had certainly gotten all fucked up in the last week. I picked up the butt cream, looked at the tube, and unscrewed the cap. I moved my pillow down under my cock, so my butt was lifted up, and squeezed a little onto both cheeks. I rubbed the cream into my swollen flesh. Ohhhhhh! That's good. The cool sensation was unbelievable. I massaged my tender cheeks with vigor.
My hips began to move in response to the rubbing. My cock rubbed against the pillow. For the first time in over a week, my cock began to grow. The last time it had done this was when I had come so close to losing my virginity to Brenda. I closed my eyes and pretended the pillow was Brenda's pussy. I pictured her tits as my cock slammed again and again into the soft cotton. Waves of pleasure rippled through my entire body. My hand, still covered in butt cream, found its way to my shaft. I rubbed the cool cream into my swollen cock, pretending I was feeling Brenda's vaginal juices. I thrust and thrust (at least Dad couldn't take this form of entertainment from me) as the ecstasy built inside me. My cock almost seemed to be buzzing as a week's worth of built-up sperm begged for release. In my mind I was fucking Brenda furiously. I forgot about all that had happened. For a few glorious seconds I was a sex god pumping my magnificent organ into my girl's twat, and she was moaning with pleasure, responding to her guy's expertise.
When I climaxed, it was like no other I had ever had. I felt my spunk spurt out a few times, then an enormous load pushed its way out of my cock, racking my body with waves of ecstasy. My whole body shuddered as another wad came out with the same force, then another, and another.
Still locked in my fantasy of fucking Brenda, I pushed myself up so I was kneeling in front of my pillow imagining that Brenda was sitting on my cock, her legs wrapped around my waist and my face buried in her tits. I continued to pump my pole, as more and more of my spunk oozed out of me. What a tremendous release! It was the best orgasm I had ever given myself.
When the last of my spunk dribbled out, I opened my eyes, and my fantasy crashed into hard, cruel reality. I looked at my spent speed. It was all over the bed and plastered to my belly. What a waste. All that cum. I had meant it for Brenda, but now it was just sitting on some pathetic teenager's bed instead — my bed! For the third time that day I cried. The first two times had been from the pain and humiliation, but this time it was from somewhere deep inside me. I wept for all I had lost. My dignity, my pride, my girlfriend, my friends, the very skin off my ass. My father had gone militant on me. Everything had changed. I wept for it all.
I turned and saw my full-body reflection in the mirror on my dresser. It was an epiphany seeing myself kneeling in front of my pillow, a string of my boy cream connecting the pillow to the purple head of my prick; my bright red, blistered ass protruding out, with its own cooler white cream covering it; my thin body, more that of a boy than a man; and the tears streaming down my face. God, I looked pathetic. No wonder everyone hated me. I wouldn't like me either. In fact, seeing myself like that, I realized I didn't like myself very much.
I was overcome by a confusing mix of emotions. As I sniffled, sucked in my snot, and wiped my bloodshot eyes, I again started thinking about all that had happened to me this week, how I had blamed everyone for what happened, and I thought maybe, just maybe, it had all been my fault. Maybe my actions had caused all this to happen. Maybe it wasn't the cops' fault, or my Dad's fault, or Brenda's, or her father's, or Michael Fay's, or New Hampshire's. Maybe it had been me all along.
But then, as the euphoria of my epic orgasm faded, I regained my senses. Nah, fuck that shit. It was their fault. Fuck them all. Fuck Dad for spanking my naked ass. Fuck the cops for beating me in front of everyone. Fuck Brenda for ratting me out. Yeah, fuck them all!
Fuck New Hampshire.
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