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8 – Windowbox Brother, Part 1

by Y Lee Coyote

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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: 03 Aug 2006

The following story is fiction.  It contain scenes of domination, spankings and sex.  If such subjects are offensive, uninteresting or if you are a minor (i.e., child) please leave now.

This work is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission.  Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete including the copyright notice.

The author would appreciate your comments – pro and con, including constructive criticism, and suggestions.

This story was inspired by a couple of photos I saw.  They show a lad of about thirteen years sitting in a window box.  He is in short-shorts and flexing a cane in one and playing with a Rubic's cube in the other.  His wicked grin/smirk suggests that something unpleasant is about to happen to someone else but that he will like it.  This is what my imagination thought up.

I was terribly late.  I ran halfway home to get there before dark.  Late is bad but late after dark is much worse.  It was just dusk as I dashed into the front room.  My brother, Christopher, was sitting in window box.  He was holding grandpa's cane; actually he was flexing it.  His expression was horrifying – sort of an evil, twisted grin.  He was wearing those baby shorts that are too tight for him.  He's thirteen, almost fourteen, more than a year older than my friends and me.  They all say he must think of himself as a little boy not to have switched to jeans like we have for the summer.

"I'm sorry I'm late." I said as I entered.  He remained silent and just pointed at the telephone with the cane.  There was a piece of paper attached to it.  I could see it said "Mrs. Paulding" and had a phone number.  Then I remembered that today was Mrs. Paulding's day to do the house and because our parents were on a holiday for the week, to even make us dinner.  Obviously, I was to call and apologize.  I did so immediately.  She was understanding, having raised three lads herself, but had been worried about me.  I apologized a second time.

I turned back to Christopher.  He directed me – again with the cane – to the open notebook on the big wooden table.  It was a list of my breaches of the rules since the weekend when our parents went away.  Nothing terribly serious but one a day.  It started with neglecting my chores on Saturday and ended with being late for dinner and making Mrs. Paulding worry.

"All trivial stuff, Christopher.  Mum and dad wouldn't really care." I said.

He was shaking his head in disagreement.  He took the book and flipped back a couple of pages.  It was the agreement we made with our parents in order NOT to have a babysitter.  "You don't have to tell, Christopher.  I'll be good the rest of the time.  I promise." I said.

He was still shaking his head in disagreement as he returned to the window box.

I was not sure what I should do.  Christopher just sat in the window box flexing the cane.  Then the light came on – the one inside my head.  He was doing something very strange – he was not treating me as a little kid (as he usually did) and telling me what to do but was waiting for me to figure out the right thing to do.

My mind was racing.  What options did I have?  Of course, I could just ask him what was the right thing to do and thereby confessing that I was a little kid and needed my big brother (only a year older) to lead me around.  This was the hardest test I ever had to face.  And Christopher was giving it rather than putting me down.  He was not pushing me at all.  I would have to find the right answer or remain a little boy to my big brother.

There must be some hints.  He never played with the cane before.  That's certainly to punish.  Our parents did not authorize him to do that although they did tell me to mind him even if I disagreed with him and they would sort it out when they got home.  There must be a clue here somewhere.  What does punishment do beside hurt?  The light got brighter!

I turned to a new page and wrote:

Dear Christopher,

I have been lax in following the rules we all agreed to.  You are right that you should tell mum and dad that I was lax unless the slate is wiped clean.  There is one way that dad has said that happens – through confession and punishment.

I confess that your list is quite correct.  Please administer an appropriate punishment (like dad would have) so the list is cleared.


I handed to book to Christopher.  He smiled and, for the first time, nodded.

"Here and now?" I asked.  He nodded again.

Dad had never caned either of us but we had both read the stories about how it was done.  I decided that I would strip completely.  That would show that I was most repentant and willing to accept my just punishment.  When I was naked I leaned over the table like it was a headmaster's desk.  Then I stood up again.  "One thing, Christopher; do this right so you can never say it was not a proper caning."  He smiled as I bent over and awaited the cane.

Christopher took a minute to get into proper position.  He then lifted the rod and brought it down hard on my bare behind.  I howled in pain.  I gripped the table tighter determined not to jump up like the sissies did in the stories.  I was better prepared for the second cut.  It hurt just as much but I did not howl.  I wondered how many more.  The third one was low – practically on the thighs – and hurt the worst.  That must be the sensitive crease they write about.  I hissed but managed to keep my place.  The fourth was above the first on my arse which was now seared.

For the first time since I got home, Christopher spoke.  "That's all, Orlando.  You took that very well.  I'm proud of you."  I stood up and rubbed my hot tail.  Christopher took a fat marker and inked over the list of my mistakes.

"You're growing up, Orli." he said.

"Thank you. I'm hungry."  I was so very proud of passing my brother's test.  I did not care that my bottom hurt.

"Me too, let's eat."

The End

© Copyright A.I.L., August 3, 2006

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