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A model son
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: 26 Dec 2014

Colin arrived at O’Hare airport on time, and this time had to go to baggage pickup, as he brought a suitcase with more clothes, because of the longer time he would be gone. It took about 40 minutes to deplane, and retrieve his luggage.

He found his way to outside, looking for a cab to take him downtown to the Whitehall Hotel, where his reservation was for the night. As he stood waiting for a taxi, a hand grabbed and crunched down on his left shoulder, as a voice spoke sternly.

Hey, kid, what’re you doing out here by yourself? Are you lost?

Colin snapped around to see who was accosting him verbally. Looking up, he saw the smiling friendly face of Keith MacGregor. Hi, Colin. I saw you come out here as I was walking down with my luggage.

Oh, hi! Wow! You really startled me, Keith! Colin laughed at himself. How are you?

Great! And you?

Good. Kind of excited to be back here, doing some more modeling.

How was your flight?

Okay, fine. No problem. Oh, by the way, thanks for recommending me, Keith. They told me you’d recommended me when they first called me about this shooting.

No problem, buddy. Glad to do it, and glad to do another modeling shoot with you, too. Where’re you staying? Maybe we can split a cab fare downtown? Keith responded.

Ah, they’ve got me reservations at the Whitehall. It’s downtown, north, I guess.

Yeah, that’s where they’ve got me, too. So, we’ll be riding to the same place. I’ve stayed there before, Colin. It’s an older hotel, but real nice, has a fitness room too.

Wow, that’s great. You know everywhere. The cab pulled up as Keith thought how callow and impressionable this young kid was.

Riding in the back together, Keith took up an informal tour guide role, pointing out places and explaining facts about them to Colin. For his part, Colin was in amazement at everything he was seeing, as well as Keith’s knowledge and familiarity with them.

At the hotel, the two young men each paid and tipped the driver, then retrieved their bags from the taxi’s trunk. Entering the elegant lobby, they went straight to the registration desk.

Keith spoke up, giving his name, and Colin’s, as guests with reservations. Sure enough, their reservations were secure. Keith was on the 18th floor, 1801; Colin was in 732 on the 7th floor.

They rode up the elevator together to the 7th floor, where Colin got off. How ’bout I call you to hook up for dinner, Colin? Keith called out.

Colin rapidly replied enthusiastically. Yeah, great! I’m in 732... and the doors closed. Inside the room, he unpacked his clothes for the next day, then called his Dad.

Hi, Dad! I’m here  – in the Whitehall Hotel. It’s a different hotel than last time.... Yeah, the flight was fine. I met Keith at the airport, and he’s staying at the same hotel.... No, he’s in a room on another floor  – 1801 on the 18th floor. I’m in 732, 7th floor.

Yes, Dad, I am, and I will.... I know, Dad, but he’s really nice. You’d like him, Dad. . . . yes, I promise, every night, before I go to bed.... Okay, Daddy, I love you. Bye.

His thoughts of home and his Dad were interrupted by a knock at the door. He opened it to find Keith standing there, wearing long shorts, a t-shirt, and bare feet in running shoes.

Hey, Colin, let’s go down to the fitness center and get some exercise in before we go get supper. Okay?

Yeah, sure. I just gotta change like you did to work out. Come on in for a minute. Colin went to his suitcase and pulled out a shirt, pair of shorts and white socks, and some cross-trainer shoes.

He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and undressed and redressed to go exercise. Opening the door, he came back into the room with his traveling clothes in his hand, which he tossed onto the bed. Okay, I’m ready, he announced enthusiastically.

Keith smiled at the youthful exuberance, as well as shyness. Be sure you’ve got a key to your room, Colin, he prompted. Colin walked over to the television where he’d left his room key and picked it up.

In the exercise room, they spotted each other for lifting a few weights on a bench. Then Keith headed to the elliptical running machine. Always got to work on the legs, he called out laughing. Colin followed suit and took up pace on a companion machine.

They worked, running, increasing the resistance and height, as they worked their legs, thighs, hips, and glutes. Both young men were dripping with sweat when over an hour later they stopped.

Okay, Colin, maybe I can drink a beer now, after all this, Keith commented in a fatigued voice. Let’s go to our rooms and clean up. I’ll meet you at your room in 30 minutes, and we’ll go get something to eat.

Colin agreed with a little less, more worn down enthusiasm. At 7, he got off the elevator and went to his room. Inside, he stripped of his sweaty clothes, turned on the shower, and got in.

It was great, relaxing, refreshing, reinvigourating his youthful energy. In 10 minutes, he was showered, dried, deodorant on, teeth brushed, hair combed, and dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve, turtleneck shirt.

He stuffed his feet into clean socks, and a pair of brown and grey saddle shoes. As he was looking for his jacket, another knock on the door told him Keith was ready. Grabbing his denim jacket, he opened the door.

Keith was dressed in chocolate corduroy pants, and thick, brown, argyle, v-neck sweater over a dark brown, long-sleeve turtleneck shirt, with brown oxfords on his long, narrow feet. He had a winter coat in his arm.

Where to, kid? he asked.

Gee, I don’t know, Keith. I bet you do, though. You probably know lot’s of places in the old Windy City. Keith smiled in response.

Okay, then. We’re going to Gino’s for Chicago-style, deep dish pizza. Follow me. We can walk, even though it’s cold. It’s on Dearborn street, only a couple of miles walking.

He slipped his dark, navy, wool peacoat on, and with his long, lanky, muscular legs making large strides, took off heading west on Delaware Street to State Street, then proceeding south on State to Wacker Drive, a block west on Wacker to Dearborn, and then south down Dearborn to the restaurant.

Colin’s shorter legs had to hustle to keep up, but he was excited as being out in the City, exploring it, but with the help and benefit of Keith’s experience. Colin also had a black, wool, peacoat on. Both young men were in clean jeans, and heavy sweaters on over long-sleeve turtlenecks.

When they arrived, they were huffing a bit, with cold faces and hands. They did not have to wait long to be seated. Keith recommended, then ordered, a large, deep dish pizza for them to share. He ordered a beer for himself, but warm cider for Colin.

They sat and talked about themselves, and their lives, and what they’d been doing since last working together. When the pizza arrived, they added its tastiness to the pleasure of the evening company.

Colin again thanked Keith for recommending him, and Keith just smiled and replied it was fun to work together again. By 9 p.m., they had finished, and Keith urged them to leave, and head back, since they had to be at the studio at 9 a.m., for preliminary prep.

They walked east on Jackson to Michigan Avenue, which as Keith said, is always an impressive sight, especially at Christmas. They trekked north nearly 2 miles to Delaware, entered the hotel chilled, and rode up the elevator together, Colin exiting at 7.

We’re scheduled to start at 9:30 tomorrow morning; supposed to be there at 9. It’s about a half mile from the hotel. I don’t mind walking. What about you, Colin?

Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll get a wake-up call to be up and ready to go. He felt mature and urbane to know about doing this.

Okay, then. We can probably get a quick breakfast before we leave at 8:30, to be on time, Keith remarked, as he let the elevator door close and went on up to 18.

When Colin got into his room it was 9:40. He called his Dad at once. Yeah, it’s very chilly here, Dad. No snow yet, but really getting cold. I just got back from eating supper. Keith knew a place that has Chicago-style, deep dish pizza. It was neat.

Yeah, he’s in his room on 18. I’m here in 732. Yeah, I’m going to bed right away. I’m tired. We walked about 4 miles round trip. Okay, Daddy, I will. I love you Daddy. Good night.

He wearily undressed, brushed his teeth, and crawled into the big bed in just his t-shirt and boxers. The next thing he knew, the phone was ringing his wake up call at 7 a.m.

He dragged his young, well-conditioned, slight body out of bed, heading to the bathroom. He showered and shaved carefully, then applying lots of deodorant, to make sure he didn’t sweat, or worse smell, under the heat of lights and exertion.

At 7:40, while getting dressed, his phone rang. It was Keith, asking if he was going to breakfast. They agreed to meet downstairs for a quick breakfast at 8. Colin was still feeling sluggish and sleepy, but Keith looked great  – sharp, handsome, eager  – so Colin thought.

They both drank coffee, had a couple of eggs and some bacon, and a glass of orange juice each. After quickly consuming it, they were back at their respective rooms, finishing getting ready to leave.

Keith told Colin to meet himself in the lobby at 8:30. Colin was on time, and they walked out, and up the street 6 blocks to a building where the photo session would take place.

Just before 9 a.m., they both walked in to the studio lobby on the 16th floor.

Good morning, guys. How’re you doing this morning? A tall man, maybe 35 or more, muscular, good-looking, with bulging arms evidencing he worked out regularly, sitting at the reception desk, greeted them.

Excellent! Great! both young men responded. It’s a beautiful, crisp, sunny morning, Keith exclaimed.

That it is, the Mens’-Health man concurred. Makes you feel alive, and glad to be.

Yeah, really, especially since we walked along Michigan Avenue coming here, Keith added.

Good idea, the muscled greeter responded. Okay, guys. You know the format. Here are the contracts. Once you sign them, we’ll show you to your dressing rooms, and you can get ready to start. He handed each of them a 7 page contract.

Keith perused down each page rather quickly, as if he had read over a hundred of them before  – and he probably had. Colin, not wanting to appear as green as he was, and to slow down the operation, followed suit, scanning the pages. Like Keith, he found the place for his signature on the last page and signed it.

Bring them up here, boys, the greeter called. I’ll witness them. Be sure to pick up your copy when you finish tonight. He signed the last page of each contract.

Okay, guys, go through that door, down that little hall. Keith, you’re in the room on the right. Colin, you’re on the left, just across from Keith. As you know, the theme is Christmastime, Santa Clause is coming to town. Any questions, guys? They both said no.

They went through door, then into their respective dressing rooms. Colin found what looked like kids’ Christmas clothes, very young-looking holiday outfits. He felt momentarily a bit dismayed at still being expected to dress and look like a kid.

One was a white shirt with red-green cuff links at the cuffs, a red-green-white striped tie, a green jumper with shorts, long white knee socks with red and green striped bands around the tops, and black and white saddle shoes. He felt a little self-conscious and juvenile dressing into such outfits, but shrugged mentally if they were willing to pay for this.

When he came into the studio wearing the green jumper outfit, he noticed the looks, not really disdainful, no hint of ridicule or derision, but surprising nonetheless. Colin could not know at the time that everybody thought him to be a stunning-looking, boyish youth.

Keith came in wearing a pair of red-green, plaid pants, a dark green blazer, over a white shirt with green-red bow tie, and brown oxfords on his feet. His longish blonde hair was brushed back, his fair complexion and green eyes reflective. Heads turned at his entrance, and once again Colin thought what a strikingly handsome, tall, lean guy Keith was.

They were at a set of Santa’s North Pole surroundings. Numerous pictures were taken of each of them, then a few together. When they left to change into other outfits, and returned, the same kinds of series  – separately, and together  – were taken.

There was a session for special, holiday underwear. Colin wore different sets of varying designed and coloured briefs, all fitting snugly around his small, narrow butt. Some were boys’ boxer briefs, that also clung snugly around his thighs as well. He tried not to succumb to feeling like a young kid during the sessions.

Keith, on the other hand, had manly, boxers, low-rise briefs and boxer briefs in Christmas colours and patterns, some with undershirts with sleeves and sleeveless beaters and some shirtless. The briefs, especially the skimpy, speedo-like ones, stretched tautly around his incomparably curved, narrow, rump.

Lacking any excess or loose flesh anywhere on his body, Keith’s bottom was perfectly contoured for such tight-fitting, meagre briefs, from which his lean, muscled, shapely legs emerged down to his skinny, narrow feet. The sparse underwear also packed in his ample bulge.

A very attractive, blonde woman arrived for Keith’s holiday underwear shots. She wore different Christmas lingerie, into which she would change after leaving momentarily: dark red, dark green, white, and black.

She and Keith sat together, in repeated shoots, but in different attire, he in just boxers or briefs or boxer briefs. They held cups of coffee they were to be sipping together. It was a hot scene of two extraordinarily good-looking, attractive people together in scant underwear.

Keith was directed to sprawl out on the bed, on his stomach, with his incomparably curved, tight, small rump in plain view. Next he was told to turn over onto his back, one leg bent with a knee up, and an arm behind his head, light blonde hairs swirled in his underarms.

The lovely blonde then joined him on the bed, leaning back onto his chest, placing a hand on his abdomen. They were a ravishingly eye-catching couple.

More shots were improvised in that setting. She lay back against a pillow, while Keith appeared to be about to move off the bed. She reached out and grabbed his left thigh on the inside, pulling him, and he fell backwards, onto his back and butt on the bed.

Both smiled adoringly at each other, although Keith’s face was suddenly crimson red. As Colin watched, he observed the cause immediately. Keith had sprouted a boner bulging in the front of his slimline boxer briefs like a coiling, rising cobra.

He was directed to try to move off the bed again. This time the woman reached to the back waistband of his slim brief, tugging them down most of his backside, exposing his astonishingly appealing, creamy, shapely curved, bare bottom.

Though flushing an involuntary and automatic scarlet face, ears, and neck, Keith was directed to fall backwards onto the bed again, as his briefs were pulled down his backside. He did so, reaching under himself to pull them back up over his rearend.

The beautiful blonde leaned atop him, reaching down to begin tugging down the front of his now quite bulging, meagre briefs. Keith lay back, trying to keep control, affecting a look of hungering desire, although her inadvertent touch of his young manhood triggered a slight, instantaneous, rigid, jerking twitch.

At the last moment, on signal, as the front of his briefs were lowered to just a peak at the stem of his rod, he reached down and pulled them back up. He sat up, and was trying mightily to control his young, male hormones and emotions, as well as his gasping, ragged breathing, while more photos were frantically taken

On cue, Keith was finally able to get up off the bed, still breathing noticeably deeply, still trying to recover and regain control. His bulging boner was stretching against the pocket in which it was tightly constricted.

He went over to a sofa next to a trimmed Christmas tree. The blonde woman followed, stretching out between his legs, lying back on him, as he lay back sprawled on it.

He held his facial looks, smiles, and intently serious gazes, even while he held his breath still trying to retain control over himself. When that shoot was over, she got up and bid him a friendly goodbye, uttering a whispered apology for the unintended, intimate touch, before planting a quick kiss on his lips.

He smiled a warm and wry smile, and assured her he understood. She returned his plainly smile of warmth, and left.

Her absence allowed his deflating boner to return to normal state from the obvious protrusion against his briefs. He and Colin were told to go into the kitchen for a light lunch.

They hurriedly returned to their rooms to re-dress, and met in the lunchroom with other members of the crew to eat. Lunch was a salad with cottage cheese, tuna, melon, and grapefruit juice. It was refreshing, if designed to keep the models’ trim and fit.

As they ate, Colin asked if he knew who the pretty, blonde, young woman was. Keith did, and told him her name was Cindy Lundren. She’s a class act, very professional, Keith added.

She’s very pretty, too, Colin added, asking if Keith knew she was coming to join in the shoot, and he said he did not; it was a total surprise to him.

Kind of a nice surprise, Colin commented. I don’t get any like that. They have me stereotyped as a kid. That’s obvious.

Don’t worry about it, little buddy, Keith reassured Colin. All in good time. You’ll get there. In the meanwhile, enjoy and make the most of what you can. You’ll be able to model what I do someday, but I’ll never be able to do what you do again. Colin smiled.

About 40 minutes later, they received instructions to go dress for the next series, which would be with Santa. Keith, you’ll be taking your little brother, Colin, here, to see Santa. Your outfits are in your rooms.

Colin was shocked to find a single-piece, velvet, red outfit, with footies, zipping up the front, for him to wear. The note the outfit said, No underwear, please. It’s supposed to be snug.

Once again resigning himself to doing what was expected, to earn big bucks, Colin pulled down and stepped out of his own boxers. In the splendour of his good-looking, trim, youthful nudity, Colin stepped his skinny, small feet into the feet of the outfit, pulled it up around behind him, putting his arms through the sleeves, pulling it around him, and zipping up the front.

It was snug on the comparatively diminutive, but conditioned, young man, and he had to pull and stretch and squeeze to fit into it. Once he had it on, though, it exuded boyish charm, even if closely enveloping his young, slender frame, especially encapsulating his youthful, small rump. Looking in the mirror, he was taken aback at how it looked like some child’s, snug snowsuit or pajamas.

When he walked out, he met Keith coming out of his room. He was wearing a yellow, white, and blue striped polo shirt, tan khaki shorts, and yellow-blue flip flops. He looked at Colin, but quickly bit his lip so as not to embarrass his youthful friend with a surprised grin.

The set was Santa seated, waiting to greet and speak with children lined up to see him. Music was playing: Better not pout, better not cry, better watch out, I’m telling you why,... Santa Clause is coming to town.

Keith was instructed to take Colin’s hand and walk along the roped line up to where Santa was sitting. Together, big brother was walking his little brother up to see Santa.

All Colin knew about this series was he’d been contracted for a series of holiday advertisements for the Christmas season. The major advertising was for him to appear as an attractive child, coming up to see and sit on the lap of an enormous Santa Clause.

The jolly, old, big guy, dressed in his red suit, with black belt and gloves, and long, fleece-like white beard, was 6′8″ and weighed almost 300 lbs. Santa peered over his spectacles to see the lean, tall, handsome blonde young man in khaki shorts and polo shirt, holding onto the younger, smaller, good-looking kid dressed in the snug-fitting red, snowsuit.

Well, well, well. What do we have here? Big brother bringing little brother to see Santa? Come on up here boys! Let’s see what Santa has in store for boys like you.

As directed, Keith walked Colin up to Santa. There, the smaller, boyish one was pulled up by the jolly big man to take a seat on the huge, red lap, leaning back into the gigantic man’s red-suited chest.

The director then came up to Colin, seated on St. Nick’s large lap, and handed the youth a large, furry brown teddy bear, with a big, red bow and a red Santa hat on it. Colin took the stuffed toy in his arm and, as instructed, wrapped his arm around it, holding it up close to him.

You are a happy, lad, Colin. Happy your brother has brought you to see Santa, and delighted to be able to sit on his lap, at Christmas time, son, the director instructed.

Easily, Colin exhibited a happy, genial smile of pleasure radiating from his youthful face as he looked up at Santa. The cameras took rapid fire shots of the striking, good-looking kid’s beaming face, as he sat on Santa’s lap, holding the teddy bear tightly, while gazing happily up into Santa’s face. Keith stood off to Santa’s right, observing.

When displayed, these pictures would be entitled: He knows when you’re good!

Next scene, the director called out. He returned Colin to sitting on the large lap of St. Nick. The director reached out to unzip the red pajama suit, pulling it down to bare the fresh-faced youth from his neck down to just above his pelvic area.

Colin instantly flushed a scarlet blush, though it also had the effect of relaxing the tight-fitting seat of the pajamas snugly stretched around his rump. As he continued seated on the colossal Santa’s lap, leaning back on his chest, the boy’s not-so-child-like member began to stir.

Jolly Old St. Nick’s face, peering toward the camera, registered his cheerful good will for children. Stick your left hand down into the inside front of your pajamas, out of sight, kid, the director called out.

Perplexed, but obedient, Colin innocently thrust his left hand down into the front of his pajamas, out of sight, touching his obvious, growing, tenting, young boner within reach of his grasp. Looking down with a screwed up face , Santa was unmistakeably eyeing the youth on his lap with disapproval. The cameras reiterated a flurry of shots.

Ho! Ho! Ho-oooo-aaaaah-what’s going on here, youngster?! the frowning big man with the red face, white beard, and red suit demanded. Colin looked up startled.

Ooooooh! Aaaaaaah! Waaaay-aaait! Colin suddenly exclaimed. Santa reached down and yanked the largely open, red, pajamas suit off his arms and shoulders, then wriggling them down over the deeply red-faced youth’s hips and buttocks, stripping them down his legs to around his ankles.

Next thing he knew, Colin found himself being hoisted, nearly nude, up into the air, while wriggling around, with the red pajamas tangled around his thin, lower legs and ankles. Inquiring in a frantic voice, looking down, he demanded, What is this?! How is this a Christmas shoot?! He received no reply.

Instead, he heard Santa declare, Here’s the proof we have here naughty, bad boy. Look! He’s got marks of having already received a spanking. So, he’s ripe for another from jolly ole, St. Nick, too!

Dumped upside down, hanging upended over Santa’s lap, the red, velvet pajamas were peeled off his bare feet and dropped down away onto the floor. The next pictures showed an astonished, red-faced Colin spread upside down, dangling across the jolly old man’s huge lap, denuded of his red, velvet pajamas, which now lay in a pile on the floor at Santa’s shiny black boots.

He could hear the tumult of the rapid shooting cameras. The ongoing series showed Old St. Nick repeatedly raising and lowering his large, black-gloved hand to smack the bare bottom of the naked boy upended on his lap.

Colin’s rump and upper legs instantly evidenced dark, wide, red hand prints, and his arms and legs were flailing with stunned pain, while his face showed his mixed reaction of stunned, embarrassed shock and discomfort. Those pictures were entitled: He knows when you’re bad!

The final set of pictures began with Santa sliding both of his big, gloved hands up to Colin’s slim, narrow waist, grasping the sides of the young man’s thin, bony hips and lifting him slightly in an iron grip. Still completely naked, Colin squirmed and wriggled around, trying to break away, bumping, bouncing, writhing as he was lowered back onto Santa’s wide lap and knees.

This last series of pictures was entitled: So, be good, for goodness sake! The session was quite long, due to necessary retakes and repeat enactments. It began with Santa announcing, Santa knows what you need this Christmas, young Colin.

The jolly, white-bearded, big man in the red suit seized Colin’s right arm, turning and twisting it upward into the young man’s back, forcibly settling hm down in place, before returning to the machine-like barrage on the youth’s very red, hot, raw rump.

This time the jolly, fat man’s gloved right hand held a red and green paddle, which he applied with snappy speed and impact. The youth’s head and chest lifted upward and backward, with extreme pain on his bawling face, while Santa resumed spanking the boy’s now very dark, red, hot and sore, bottom with the Christmas paddle.

Colin had agreed to this whole assignment, all scenes and sets, with an unquestioning, almost acquiescent resignation, because of the large compensation involved. The money was great, he knew, and he did indeed need and want it.

He began the first session with an almost playful, self-conscious charade; but as time wore on, and the series of scenes unfolded, he became more and more uncomfortable, then sore to hurting, and finally in excruciating, painful agony he could not take much longer.

Any tears he might have imagined conjuring up in pretense, when first upended across Santa’s lap, were now his true, genuine, spontaneous, and uncontrollable breakdown. With a rapidity of trampling reindeer hooves, the paddle spread over his small, boyish-looking butt cheeks and thighs, inundating them with spanks that applied intense, fiery pain to his bottom.

In only a couple of minutes, the sizzling hot pain spurred his desperate, futile scrambling, trying to pull up and crawl off the huge lap over which he was draped. As he raised his head, shoulder, and chest, and began trying to pull away and off, the now-not-jolly, big man’s large hands grasped Colin around his narrow waist, just above his boyish, bony hips.

Holding him securely, the determined St. Nick pulled the brazen, resistant youth backward, and down, and in place again. With a speed and intensity evidencing the resolute intent of Santa to punish young boys who’ve misbehaved, he snapped the Christmas paddled in a blur of swats that lighted a yuletide fire on Colin’s bottom and thighs.

Colin could not hold back, or hold off, any longer. Caving in, he began squalling, wailing child-like, bawling sobs, apologizing, begging, promising to be good. Tears were pouring from his eyes, down his face that was contorted with the hard, unlimited volley of spanks administered. He surrendered as a fully defeated boy, being punished by Santa.

The long photo shoot seemed to go on for hours, although it was less than 50 minutes. Colin came to realize that, over the course of this advertising photo shoot, in reality, he was also receiving a real, thorough, and hard spanking.

By the time it finally ended, the youth’s lean, silky smooth, muscled thighs were hideously reddened on their backs and sides, inner and outer, from the torrential barrage of slaps. His buttock appeared seared and charred darkly where they meet his thighs.

Weeping intense, uncontrollable sobs, he looked every bit like a small, bad boy being punished with a spanking. Unlike a naughty, young boy, however, his descent into sorrowful weeping and regret was accompanied by an unexpected, sexual arousal in his young manhood.

His writhing and squirming, as he tried, in vain, to elude the fiery smacks, simultaneously stimulated his youthful member to a hungering, raging, boner. He needed relief from the inferno searing the flesh on his bottom and upper legs, and from the gathering, mounting, demand for sexual release.

He would not get that, however, only an undeniably sound, harsh spanking. When the jolly fat man finished spanking the naughty boy hanging across his lap, Colin was bawling loud, gulping sobs, from which he could not refrain even as he was once again picked up by the granite-like grip of Santa’s gloved hands around his slim waist, to stand on his stomping, bare feet.

Colin was the classic picture of a sorry, punished, little boy, standing naked, weeping and rubbing his dark, red butt. Absorbed in the pain radiating from his rearend, and the shameful misery and sorrow of having been punished with the fierce spanking just administered, he had no awareness of the spectacle he presented, much less the filming and photos occurring.

Neither did he hear Keith’s opprobrious remarks to the director, objecting to the scenes of Santa’s spanking of Colin. This wasn’t a necessary part of this Christmastide shoot, and definitely not for a mere kid like this, Keith objected.

Nor did Colin hear Santa’s sharp rebuke to Keith: Santa knows the naughty, big boys who are bad too, and what they need, too, young man.

Before there was time for him to think about that reproof, however, Keith found his own wrist seized, and himself jerked hard by his grabbbed arm, first forward to Santa’s side, then off his feet, and spread down and across the legs of Santa’s broad lap. The lanky young man’s blonde-haired head and chest were shoved down over and below Santa’s other leg too.

Heeeeeeey! This wasn’t part of the job, either! Keith protested as he lay suddenly sprawled upended over huge Santa’s big lap and knees. He tried to scramble, struggling to slide off the lap, only to have the big, strong arms and hands scoop and hold him in place on the broad lap across which he was splayed.

The director shouted harshly at Keith, You’re under contract, Keith! You agreed, and signed! Trying to renege would not work or be good for your future, Looker Boy!

The exquisitely handsome, older, young model, with the longish, blonde hair and almost pretty face with green eyes, instantly comprehended the legal and career implications of the warning. With a scowl, he relented, even as he lay draped ignominiously across the big Santa’s wide lap.

The smacks of the same, Christmas paddle that had blistered Colin’s young, small bottom began striking the seat of Keith’s smoothly stretched, tight khaki shorts. His reaction, at first, was more surprise from the shock of being in this position and feeling hard swats applied to his bottom again, than embarrassment and humiliation, or discomfort and pain.

In short time, that changed, however. Santa (Malcom) was wielding the paddle in the same masterful, effective domination he’d just utilized with Colin, delivering a punishing, Christmas spanking to a naughty, big boy to whom the added shocking shame of regular, disciplinary spankings was unknown and unfamiliar for almost 15 years.

The realization of being pulled down and across Santa’s lap, and of stinging, uncomfortable spanks striking hard, over and over, against his bottom began to surface to the forefront of his consciousness. Through the taut, cotton seat of his khaki shorts, and his skimpy underwear beneath, Keith felt the repetitive, mounting stinging, smarting, heating up his bottom

He had no further chance to wiggle his posterior away from, or out of reach of, Santa’s spanking. Having been dumped upside down over Santa’s broad lap, and with both hands supporting his face and shoulders from contact with the floor, his upended rump was a ready, positioned target.

He had only begun bucking slightly, and gasping in air, from the cumulative effect of the smacks against his backside when suddenly it stopped. The tall, thin, lanky, blonde, young man found himself grabbed up off Santa’s lap, to stand before the jolly old fellow.

Keith was unaware, though he could not help himself anyway, that his arms and hands flew back to massage and rub enthusiastically his heated, warmed up rearend with grasping, clinging clasps. In laser quick time, Santa grabbed and unbuckled the long, lithe, handsome, blonde, young man’s belt, unsnapped and unzipped his khaki shorts, letting them fall to the floor.

As the cool air compelled the reality of his being disrobed, Keith twisted his narrow, bony hips and legs, trying to elude control by the colossal St. Nick. Instead, he found the scant seat of his speedo briefs and his exposed thighs, repeatedly smacked sharply. He stopped at once, only to be toppled instantly back onto and over the big man’s broad lap again.

Keith’s bottom was just the size and shape a speedo is meant to encase: rounded and firm like two, lean, narrow, muscled bookends encasing both sides of the tightly clenched, hidden cleft between them, descending curvaceously to the shapely thighs and lanky legs. It was — like the rest of the amazingly good-looking, young man — a posterior perfectly made for the scant, wardrobe in which it was crammed.

It was even more suited to be freed from the constricting confines in which it was compacted, and to be given the healthy, resounding spanking for which it appeared to exist and to be asking, without hindrance or interference.

Santa wasted no time as he set out on the initial stage of his spanking of a naughty, big boy. Keith’s speedo-like underwear did not provide much protection. His trim, muscled thighs, leading to shapely, long, lean, muscled legs, and skinny, narrow feet, extending from the tiny speedo, were kicking and flailing under the fiery, blistering assault on his rump and upper legs.

Pausing only momentarily, Santa peeled Keith’s little, red-white-blue, speedo briefs down, off of his encapsulated, slim, muscled butt, stripping them down his shapely, lean legs to his feet.

Nooo-oooooo-not baaaaaaaaare! Keith cried out, as Santa resumed spanking the now totally bare, red-marked bottom rapidly and efficiently. Quickly, the signs and sounds of the young man’s increasing discomfort were evident to all.

He was plainly and quickly losing his composure and self-control. His comely, long, lean legs were kicking and flailing wildly, projecting his tiny, speedo brief into the air to fall to the floor a distance away.

Through his weepy, wet eyes, still squalling with his contorted face, Colin was far more upset at the sight of his older, strikingly handsome mentor and friend, to whom he looked up, being treated to, and reacting from, the same unsparing spanking that had been dispensed to Colin.

Inevitably, the relentless course of further, rapid, repetitive, shocking series of spanks applied to the strikingly beautiful, blonde, young man’s bare, raw rump propelled him from startled dismay, to stoical protest, to alarmed discomfort, to the emotionally lachrymose brink, finally catapulted over the threshold to sobbing collapse and begging pleas of surrender.

Keith was swiftly swept down the descending current to a hapless, spanked boy. He cried out, pleading in vain: it wasn’t right, wasn’t fair; he would be good, better, needed a chance; didn’t need a spanking, didn’t want a spanking, wanted it to stop. Oooo-nooooo-aaa-pleeeeeez!

He was begging and pleading for it not to happen, not to continue, to stop  – no moooore! It was hurting, bad  – oooo, sooooo, baaaad!

It was enough, too much! It needed to stop! The fiery, fast spanks were racking his exquisite, trim, conditioned bottom with unbelievable, excruciating pain.

To all these pleas and protestations, the gigantic, spanking Santa, undeterred, replied, Ho! Ho! Hooo! You know Santa has good things for good boys, and bad things  – punishment  – for bad boys, big and small. Santa knows what bad boys need, how much, and how long, regardless of their age or size.

Restrained forcefully across the giant Santa’s lap, Keith tried to writhe and twist and buck, hoping somehow to elude the incessant, fiery paddle, or better to find an escape from the hold that kept him positioned in place for the ongoing licking being applied. Except for his size, and the slightly lower tone of his own shrieking cries, Keith MacGregor did not sound much different than Colin Corcoran.

Frantically, but futilely, grappling in his confined position, his buttocks and thighs were being seared with the blistering paddle, yet his todger began asserting its own inclinations. It was almost too late