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Part 8

by Graham

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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: 05 Sep 2010

Still squalling, I dressed in old clothes to work on whatever chores Uncle Glen was going to assign me, then walked back downstairs to follow him, silently, outside. He showed me the roof, and told me to get the ladder, the long sweep broom, and the leaf blower, and go up and clean off the roof of leaves and debris. While he went off to do other things, I worked hard cleaning out the gutters and clearing the roof until Mum called out that lunch was ready.

We ate lunch quietly, not much spoken amongst us. Mum had placed a pillow on my chair for me to rest my behind on, so it was obvious he'd told her what had happened. That was embarrassing beyond limits, even if nobody said anything about it.

After lunch, Uncle Glen spoke to me: "Hurry and clean up your place, Matthew. I'll be waiting for you outside to rake up all the debris you got off the roof; and I've got some other things for you to do too." He walked outside, leaving me to pick up my plate, glass, and cutlery, and take them to the sink where my Mum was rinsing off everything before putting it in the dishwasher.

I took the opportunity to speak to her. "Mum, why is Uncle Glen here? And how long is he going to be here?"

"Well, Matthew, he's here because he was concerned about me living all alone and trying to take care of a big house and a young adult son, all by myself. He offered, and I accepted, his coming to live here with us."

"But nobody asked me, and I didn't agree or ask him here," I objected.

"That's true, Matthew, and maybe we should have discussed it together first. However, even if you didn't agree, it wouldn't have changed things. I'm grateful for Glen's help and support, and I know he cares about you greatly, Matthew."

"Cares about me?!" I shouted back. "All he cares about is dominating and controlling me, treating me like a kid, and whipping me every time I turn around. It's not fair! And now he's going to spank me every night this week – and every week after – just like a child! Come on, Mum. We can get along alright. We don't need him. He can go back to Canada. We did fine before – without him." I was pleading, and should have had more sense than to think I could try to persuade my Mum to get rid of her brother, my Uncle.

"No, Matthew, we didn't get along fine. You didn't listen to me, weren't obeying, and were really getting out of hand. He's your Uncle, and he's the man in this house now. He's part of our family, and I'm not going to try to get him to leave, just because he's taken you in hand, young man – something that's been lacking, and needed, for quite some time, I might add."

"But, Mum, I can't stand this! I feel like I'm 10 years old, instead of 23! I can't do anything I want! He makes me get yours and his approval on everything. He's set a curfew for me! And worst of all, any time I do anything on my own – or different than what he says – I get spanked – bad – just like a little kid! – and you don't do anything about any of this, Mum!" My growing, suppressed frustration had reached the pressure point and was bursting forth.

"Just calm down, Matthew," Mum responded. "You know, after Daddy died, with just the two of us – and you, a young man growing up – didn't listen to me, or like what I would say. That was a problem, until Uncle Glen came to live here. In a way, he's a godsend, because he fills the role of a man in this house, and besides, he understands young men, and can deal with you in a way I can't. Think about it, Matthew, when you have tried to do things on your own whim, without listening and obeying, you've made a mess for yourself. Just look at the damage to your boss' – Mr. Bronson's –car."

I gulped inwardly, hating to concede my blunders, wanting desperately to gain some freedom. "But, Mum, . . ."

"But what, Matthew? You want me to tell Uncle Glen he can't live here – to go back to Canada? I can't do that, Matthew."

"No, no, no, Mum. But he doesn't have to try to control me, and mess in my life. He can just let me have my own life . . ."

"Wait a minute, Matthew," Mum interrupted me. "You could say the same thing about me, too; but that's foolish – and wrong. You're my son. I love you. I want you to do what is right, and avoid what's wrong – to grow up to be a decent, honorable, trustworthy and dependable young man. And so does Uncle Glen. We are not going to give in, and give up on you, letting you run loose, get out of hand, and do anything you want – no matter what. Neither Uncle Glen, nor I, are willing to allow that.

"So, if you're asking me to tell Uncle Glen to leave you alone, and quit supervising and looking after you, and – yes – disciplining you when you need it; I'm not going to do that, Matthew. It's because we do care so much about you that he looks after you, and helps me to do the same thing. The best thing for you is to heed what your Uncle and I tell you, and obey, and you'll find life is a lot more pleasant, a lot less trouble, and yourself progressing."

"Oooooh, that's just a pile of bullshit!" I exclaimed, frustrated, and squelched in my protests and efforts to get her authority to change things, and curb Uncle Glen's control.

"Oh, no, you don't, young man!" I heard Uncle Glen's voice speak up.

"What're you doing meddling on Mum's and my conversation?" I challenged him.

"Remember I told you I'd be outside, waiting, and to hurry? When you didn't, I came back in to see what you were doing, instead of obeying and coming outside to work. Then I hear that kind of talk – and to your Mum, too. You know better, Matthew; but I guess another reminder'll help you remember." He walked over to me, grasped my left bicep and pulled me along with him over to the door leading to the stairs to the basement.

"Noooooo!" I shouted. "This is what I mean, Mum! Not again! Not another one todaaay!Noooooo! Mum, pleeeeez!" As I was calling out in vain, he pulled and then pushed me along, opening the door, and steering me downstairs to the basement. He said nothing, but was unmistakeably irate. He must have overheard my conversation with my Mum.

Without uttering another word to me, he began methodically undressing me down to my boxers. Standing there, my chin and lips began quivering and tears were flooding to my eyes as I realized I was about to get another spanking within less than 4 hours. I felt sorry for myself and depressed about not getting Mum's support over this kind of treatment by Uncle Glen, and about his hearing me try and now punishing me for it.

Other than to start crying early, what else could I do about it? I was so inwardly focused on my glum and dejected feelings, I didn't hear him tell me to drop my boxers and get over his knees.

The next thing I was aware of was Uncle Glen grabbing me by my biceps and lifting me right off my feet. He carried me like that to the chair where he sat down while dropping me upside down across his lap. His rough, powerful hand stripped my boxers down over my hips, buttocks, my semi-erect package underneath, and down my legs to my feet. Then the session with the hairbrush began again.

Already so sore from just a few hours earlier, I screamed at the first blasts of the brush against my still red and hurting buttocks, sit-spots, and inner thighs. Although I knew better than to try to fight and prevent him, I was not able to just lie there stoically enduring a blistering spanking all over my scorched and sensitive bottom. My legs jumped and kicked, scissoring and jolting, and I just fell off the bridge into bawling, and begging and pleading for mercy, promising (again) to be better, before rapidly surrendering to the immutable fact that I was getting another spanking from my Uncle, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Being now this sore and frequently spanked, in no time I had jettisoned my supposed adult, male ego's outrage, abandoning any thought or effort to take issue with being punished by a spanking. I cried and squalled like a chastened, small child, no other feelings left than the shameful sorrow and regret for having been so bad and naughty that I needed another spanking. He applied the hellish hairbrush to my buttocks and things until he had extracted my full surrender and compliance – even though beyond ability to articulate or even consciously perceive. I just caved in and accepted being disciplined again.

Afterward, when I could do nothing more than sob and wail, he did not allow me to linger over his lap, trying to regain self-control and composure. Instead, he reached under my arms and yanked me up onto my stumbling, unsteady bare feet. I shrieked from the pain and added shame as he pulled me quickly over to a corner and pushed my face into it.

"Hands on the back of your head, Matthew. Do not leave that corner, or touch your punished rearend, until I tell you you can," he barked. I sobbed loudly and uncontrollably again, staring at the close walls that met at the corner. My pride and my behind were badly wounded and battered. I really just wanted to go to bed and fall asleep to escape what had happened, and was happening, to me. To my horror, my rod, that had become habituated to clamouring for the assuaging relief of a wank, was jutting out, stiff and engorged, bobbing and pulsating while I bawled and sobbed; but, of course, I could not dare to do anything to relieve it.

I must have stood there for almost an hour until my sobs had become whimpering. Uncle Glen then ordered me to back out of the corner, but keep my hands away from my backside.

"Put your clothes back on, Matthew, and follow me upstairs and outside, to finish up the work that is waiting." I cried out of more self-pity as I hastened to pull on my boxers, my old jeans and t-shirt, and my shoes, following right behind him up the stairs and then out the door to the yard. It took a while before my silent crying stopped altogether, even while I worked outside all afternoon.

We stopped at supper time, when Mum called us. After washing up, we hungrily devoured a delicious meal, even though I was mostly silent, sitting there feeling dejected and crestfallen over everything that had happened today, and with my weight on my rump causing excruciating discomfort. After supper, I didn't know what to do – what I could do, and what I couldn't. I decided to go into the den and watch television, but I hadn't been lying on my stomach on the couch very long when Uncle Glen came in and told me it was "bedtime."

I was shocked, and wanted to protest like mad; but I was afraid. So, I just asked, "Why? What've I done now?"

"Nothing, Matthew. But a young man whose had as many problems as you've brought on yourself in the past few days needs to be in bed, getting a good, solid night of sleep, so he can think and act clearer, like a much better boy from now on." I hated him talking so belittling to and about me; but I got up and, with that by-now familiar, hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, wordlessly followed him to my room

Inside my room, he stood there and began undressing me for bed. As he was pulling off my shirt, I couldn't stand being treated so child-like and protested: "I can get myself ready for bed! I'm not a little kid! I don't need help!"

That was a mistake. Grasping the back of my neck with his left hand, he bent me over and applied at least a dozen, hard swats to the seat of my khakis, while admonishing me that, "after everything that's happened," I was still "disobeying." With my behind so sore from the 3 spankings in the last 24 hours, the strong swats hurt bad, immediately. I conceded at once: "Okaaaay! Okaaaay! You can doooo it! You caaaaaan!"

He let go and I stood up, only to be steered by him towards my bed, where he pushed me down, first onto my butt, then backward to lay on my back, while he pulled my shoes off my skinny, narrow, bare feet, unbuckled my belt and unsnapped and unzipped my pants and pulled them roughly down over my hips, from under my buttocks, and down my legs and off my feet. Then he pulled me back up to sit on the bed, and tugged my t-shirt up over my head and arms. Now I was seated there before him in only my boxers.

Not wasting any time, Uncle Glen grabbed my left arm and pulled me to my feet, replacing me seated on the bed, circling me around by my left arm to the right of his legs, and quickly hauling me off my feet down over his knees again. Almost as I landed on his lap, he was shifting me forward until my face was inches from the floor, and my legs up in the air. He grasped the waist of my boxers and instantly they were off my butt, my legs and feet, on the floor. Despite the folly, by now, of even attempting false modesty with my Uncle, nevertheless, out of the abhorrent humiliation of being involuntarily denuded once again, I shrieked.

His rock-strong hand began pommeling my wounded, bruised, bare bottom. It hurt more than a mere hand-spanking might be expected, being hard, rapid, and re-igniting the flaming pain on butt cheeks, thighs, and sit-spots. Immediately, I was crying hard, begging and apologizing, pleading for "no more spanking," but "just let me go to bed."

"This is the fourth time in the past 24 hours, Matthew," he noted. "I'd think you'd be embarrassed to have to be getting spanked so much at your age, young man." He not only fragmented my young male adult affect, he ground in the shame and humiliation – along with the pain.

"Nooooo, Uncle Glen!" I called out. "I'm sorreeee-aaaaa-ooooo-haugh-uh-uh-I-uhuh-didn't-huh-uh-meaaaan-uh-uh-tooooo-ooooo-uh-ow-ow-ow-uh-uh-pleeeeez-uh-I-uh-didn't huh-augh-meeeean-aaaaa-uh-toooooo-duh-is-uh-uh-ooooo-uh-baaaaay! Oooooo-uh-huh-waaaaaa!" I wailed while breaking down to more bawling sobs.

He trounced my already wounded, bare bottom, including the tender insides of my buttocks, and very quickly I had totally capitulated to being punished by him with another spanking. In short time, he jerked me back to my bouncing, shaking feet and legs, ordered me to put my boxers back on and into bed.

So at 7:30 p.m. that Monday night, I had the refuge in bed I had wanted earlier in the day, albeit now at a very early time in the evening, while daylight remained, and with another spanking to boot. Lying in bed, on my stomach, in only my boxers, sobbing into my pillow, I felt miserable and self-pitying. I felt frustrated desperation, thinking how restrained and restricted I was, and also how badly and much my butt hurt from being spanked 4 times in less than 24 hours.

Waves of nervous, jittery anxiety and inhibition swept over my consciousness, vexing me with feelings of being stuck under the thumb of my Uncle, with the knowledge and consent of my Mum. I couldn't even move out and leave, because they wouldn't let me. Uncle Glen would find me and bring me back home, and that would mean another whipping for doing that. Besides, having to pay Mr. Bronson for the damage to his car would take at least 10 months, so I wouldn't have any money anyway.

I didn't feel like a young adult, a man at all. Instead, I felt like a child trapped in an unending, helpless situation: I either had to comply or be spanked. The alternatives were clear and inescapable.

At the same time, the agitated, fearful memory of these past 4 spankings from my Uncle, along with my feelings and thoughts of futility and despair, strangely produced a weird arousal and tenting boner in my boxers. In extreme need of calming respite, I rolled onto my side, grabbed my now-erect, throbbing manhood poking through my boxers, and wanked vehemently. In no time at all, I attained an intense, volcanic explosion that sent quieting, comforting, tranquilizing peace to ease my mind. Shortly after that, the reclusive reparation of sleep followed.

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