A Collection of Short Stories
|by Y Lee Coyote|
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: 11 Sep 2007
This is the rest of the 2007 collection. There is a link to the first part at the end of this.
6: This was inspired by the picture of the room vent grill which is at socsexualityspanking.org/ssc/2007/pictures/grille.jpg Now haven't you wondered about the noises you have heard in a motel?
Motel Room #7
The motel was a dump but I was exhausted and the next town was more than an hour away. I brushed my teeth, peed and fell into bed. I was seconds from crashing into a restless sleep when a door slammed and there was a light on the side of the bed. It was coming through the air vent from the next room. A deep male voice was yelling with great fury.
"I've had it up to here!"
"I've told you what would happen if you did not mend your ways."
"Now get those clothes off and lay on the bed."
Then there was another voice. This was higher in pitch – a woman's or girl's or a youth's pleading.
"Please, I'm sorry but it was an accident."
"Not the belt, please."
"It won't happen again. Ever!"
It must have been a belt or a strap hitting the dresser. I sat up. I was alert. The lamp shook from the cut.
"HURRY UP!" snapped the man angrily.
I heard shoes thump against the wall and then drop to the carpet quietly. Should I call the police? There wasn't a phone in the room. The office was closed as the clerk had left after giving me the key.
"HOLD TIGHT! Don't move."
Then another WHACK! and a yell of pain. I was mesmerized. «One.» I counted automatically.
Over and over the belt connected with its target. Each time with a loud WHACK followed by a cry of pain.
I kept count. «Two, Three, ..., Ten, ..., Twenty, ..., Thirty, Thirty-one, Thirty-two. Thirty-three. » Then the belt stopped.
A new order. "Get me wet unless you want it dry."
Just a few seconds later I heard. "That's it. Suck it good." There was a slight pause. "Get it good and wet."
"On the bed."
"No! On your knees with your hot ass up."
There was a yelp as the brute rammed into some hole. Was it a cunt or an asshole? A girl or a boy?
I could not tell. He was rough and pounded hard for the other kept whining. He was done in just three minutes with a loud yell about coming.
They each used the bathroom for there were two flushes – one after a big man pissing loudly in the bowl and the other after some painful grunts.
"Get dressed. I want to get home."
A couple of minutes later the light went out and the door slammed. It was quiet. They had left. I had shot without touching myself. I dropped off into sleep. In the morning I continued my trip.
Now, almost four decades later it is my most intense memory. I still wonder if it was a man and woman – wife or mistress or whore; or man and man – partner or hustler or twink?
But I still get off on it; fantasying being in Motel Room #7 on November 26, 1969 rather than in Room #5. Sometimes I am the brute and sometimes the woman and sometimes the youth.
© Copyright A.I.L. July 27, 2007
7: An old school room was the inspiration for this tale. You can see the image at socsexualityspanking.org/ssc/2007/pictures/desk.jpg School was different back then...
Unusual School Day
I did not know where or when I was. Everything was so strange; not like the 2007 that I knew. Almost everything was made of wood – there were some metal doodads about but nothing of plastic or other twenty-first century materials. The room had a mess of double school desks and chairs from a century ago matching the wooden plank floor. There was even ink in the inkwells. A hurricane lantern was on the teacher's desk at the front of the room. There was a dunce cap on a stool in the corner. The flag had only forty-six stars.
A bell rang and a batch of kids came in. They were in old style clothes. It was then that I realized that I was also. The teacher called for order. Everyone sat absolutely still with their hands clasped on their desks. I quickly did the same. The teacher was pacing in the front of the room. The stick he was swinging made me fearful although I didn't know why.
The teacher started to quiz the class. He went sequentially down each file asking a question of each pupil. A wrong answer got prompt punishment. The errant boy (the girls all had the correct answers) was summoned to the front and had to drop his trousers and bend over. Since none of them wore drawers, they were bare. The girls hid their giggles behind their hands. The fearful stick was used twice or thrice on each of the unfortunate lads. It left fearful marks. Each cut made me flinch.
A nurse came into the room for a height and weight check. I had not noticed before but there was a scale at the back of the room. The nurse carefully recorded everyone's height and weight on a set of charts. "Everyone has done very well. You all are now within your proper weight range for your ages and heights." She paused. "All save one!" I knew that one was me. I was very overweight. "Not only did Turan not lose the ten pounds as scheduled but he GAINED three pounds."
I was summoned to the front. I dropped my trousers and bent over. I wondered why I was not wearing any underpants. I screamed at the first cut and jumped up. Two boys were directed to hold me in place. The teacher started again. I yelled for each cut as it seared my flesh. I cried in the corner. I had to stand there for hours until school was over showing the angry track marks.
As I left, the others taunted me: "Fatso got it again." They ran circles around me and slapped my sore ass. They were far too nimble for me to catch.
The bell was ringing again. Mother was shaking me. "Billy, getup and shower. Your Weight Watchers® meeting is in an hour." I groaned. "Now move it unless you want a spanking." I ran to the bathroom.
© Copyright A.I.L. July 27, 2007
8: When one is obsessed and addicted, one is lead to desperate actions. I've expanded this story and the long version is in the archive as id=13802.
My name is Pete and I ... am ... a ... spank...a...holic. I failed this week. I've relapsed. I've had a spanking!
"Would you tell us about it, please Pete."
Last Tuesday was an ordinary day at work. I was going home when it happened. I first saw him heading into the subway. I should have waited but he had the most beautiful butt in tight jeans; I had to watch it. It got worse at the turnstile. His fare card failed so he got caught by the bar. His top half kept going so he bent over and flaunted the most spankable ass I had seen in days.
<murmurs of disapproval>
I managed NOT to give him a spank even though I was right behind him. It was very difficult. I slapped the turnstile instead. I know I shouldn't be physical but at least I did not hit that perfect butt. I regained control and rushed through the next turnstile. It was extra crowded for the train was late. I was pushed in and couldn't move. A minute later we were stopped in the tunnel on a switchover. The lights were out in my car as we waited.
"You came close but you were doing OK." interjected the facilitator.
"You're one of them." whispered a voice in my ear. I turned my head and couldn't believe that it was the young man; my shoulder was bumping his chest. You're a spankaholic! I'm sure he could see me turn pale. Was he fuzz? He laughed evilly in my ear. Then I felt his hand. It was concave and pressed up against my butt. I was trapped. I couldn't move. I didn't dare yell for he would denounce me. He could not really swing his hand so he pressed hard and backed off. My heart was racing was we pulled into the next station.
"COME!" he commanded.
I obeyed. I was scared to and even scareder [sic] not to. He led me to a dark alley. In the back; he sat on a box and pulled me over his lap. He was an expert. He got one of my arms in a hammerlock. His spanking hand was as hard as a paddle. He was strong. Even through my trousers his spanks hurt. He made me cry. Just a young man of eighteen.
He pushed me off his lap. I was afraid of what he would do.
He dropped a business card. It showed a well-spanked butt and a phone number: I-SPANK-U.
He disappeared as I studied the card, mesmerized. I stayed until I stopped crying. Eventually I found the subway and went home. My butt hurt for days. I felt so great.
The worst part is I can't get him out of my mind. I try to be pure but every night I'm compelled to pick up my slipper and whack my tail – fantasizing that it is him doing it.
Help me. Please help me. Please stop me from calling I-SPANK-U.
© Copyright A.I.L. August 8, 2007
9: The picture of the simple medical examination table at socsexualityspanking.org/ssc/2007/pictures/table.jpg was the inspiration for this. Responding to an unexpected knock can be a surprise of any sort.
It was a Sunday and I was catching up on my paperwork in my office when the bell rang. The doorman had not called up. At first I thought that I should ignore it but it was very persistent and there was even some banging on the door. I am a physician so it could be an emergency.
It was two boys who I knew lived upstairs with their mother. One had been crying and was being held up by the other. He was very pale. "Doc, my brother is hurt." I couldn't leave them standing on my doorstep to wait for EMS so I took them into the examining room. "On the table, please."
I expected him to sit but the older one said: "Bend over the end of the table, Billy." and then pulled him up. The paper worked as a lubricant. "It's his butt, doc." he said as he reached under and undid Billy's pants. Billy's pants were messy but I did not expect what I saw when they came down. The boy's briefs were red; soaked with bright red blood. I had not seen such a mess since I was a field surgeon in the war.
I took a picture and started to treat the lad. "What happened?" I demanded.
"Vincent beat him with a lamp cord. He pulled down his pants and whipped him bad." said Kenny.
"Mom's druggy boyfriend."
"Call your mom. I need to speak to her; I have to know if Billy has any allergies."
"Can't reach her now. Billy doesn't have any. Please help my little brother, doctor, please." Kenny pleaded.
They did not have a family doctor. I did what I could – pain relievers, antibiotics and a dressing. "Did Vincent hurt him any other way? Knock him about?"
"Not this time."
I called 911 for an ambulance and the police. Billy needed to be checked for other trauma and observed. Vincent had to be locked up.
The officers saw and were horrified. Kenny opened his apartment door for them. They busted Vincent for drugs immediately. The child abuse charges would be added a few hours later by CPS. The bloody lamp cord was taken as evidence along with drugs. Conviction and incarceration were certain.
In the hospital the trauma team gave Billy a thorough check. There were some not quite healed bruises but nothing else of note. Billy did not want to talk. Kenny reported that Vincent often hit Billy. Today, Billy was slow to get out of the bathroom and Vincent used the lamp cord. He swung it at Billy's naked bottom more than a score of times and Billy screamed for everyone. He was crying by the time he told me. I was glad that I recorded it so that he did not have repeat it over and over.
Their mother did not believe it. Fortunately the judge did and issued a protection order and set impossibly high bail. The boys were safe for now.
© Copyright A.I.L. August 9, 2007
10: The challenge was to write about an object, which might be a fetish.
On The Wall
The first day that Kris moved into the house Kris saw IT. IT was hanging on the wall between the boys' room and the girls' room. The others had told Kris that it had been hanging there since forever.
It was a scary item. There had been one like IT at the orphanage. THAT ONE had been taken off the wall almost every day and used. Whenever THAT ONE had been used, there had been screams of pain and torrents of tears as a bottom or bottoms were seared. Every one of the orphans quickly learnt to fear THAT ONE.
Kris was glad that Mr. and Mrs. Lothridge, no, he must call them Mother and Father now, had a house, a warm bed and full table to share; in short a home. They had not mentioned that IT was hanging on the wall in their house. IT was just like THAT ONE at the orphanage. Kris was scared just seeing IT.
The others did not seem to mind IT being there. They did not seem to associate IT with blinding pain and blood curdling cries of pain for they had not come from the orphanage like Kris had. In the orphanage when a child was sent to get THE OTHER IT, the pain was not just felt in one's behind but in one's empty belly for it replaced dinner.
Every day, actually many times a day, whenever Kris went in or out he saw IT on the wall and remembered THE OTHER IT in the orphanage. Kris did not want to ever take IT off the wall. In fact, Kris never even touched IT for IT conjured up such terrible mental images. Kris was a dutiful child minding both (adoptive) parents and teachers, doing homework and chores.
When Kris was eighteen and done with high school, it was time to move into the world. Kris thanked Mr. and Mrs. Lothridge most sincerely for such a good life. But Kris mentioned IT and its effects. How glad Kris was that there had never been a need to take IT off the wall. They both laughed: "Kris, please fetch IT now for us."
Kris found that IT was tightly attached to the wall. Only then did Kris understand their laugher for IT could not be taken down and used.
Note: Don't ask what IT is. It the sort of thing that can be found in Room 101 of Orwell's 1984.
© Copyright A.I.L. August 10, 2007
11: The challenge was to start (or end) the story with the given line.
The clock struck three. Everyone in town heard it. Everyone in the school heard it. Everyone in Mr. Crane's class heard it. Nineteen students stopped what they were doing even in midsentence putting their pens down, closing their books, putting things into their satchels and waiting for the best word of the day from Mr. Crane. "Dismissed." Eighteen students jumped and dashed for the door – free until eight the next morning.
Miguel Mendoza remained seated with his books and things in his satchel by his seat. His eyes staring at the initials carved into the old wood desk. He waited. Mr. Crane always made him wait. Whenever he glanced up, he could see Mr. Crane at his high desk marking papers. Miguel knew he would have to wait. He wished that he had remembered to pee at recess but he had forgotten to do so. The urgency in his crotch made waiting worse. Mr. Crane turned over the last paper and put the stack into his desk. He put his pen down. It was only then that he paid any attention to the boy still sitting nervously at his desk.
"Mendoza come here." Miguel jumped up and stood before the teacher's desk. His head was bowed. His hands were behind his back. He knew what was about to happen. He really did not hear what Mr. Crane said to him. It did not matter for it was always the same words. "... extremely bad boy ... must ... punished ... six ..." and finally the action ones: "Trousers down and bend over, boy." Miguel unhooked the strap of his bib overalls. The overalls fell to the floor. He was not wearing underpants. He bent over and placed his hands on the edge of the teacher's platform. He remained silent.
Mr. Crane took the stick from the wall and stepped over to the waiting boy. He carefully got into position. Miguel gripped the edge tightly. Mr. Crane raised the stick and brought it down hard on the target. It left an angry line. Miguel bit his lip to keep from yelling. The second cut was even worse. Crane was sloppy and it crossed the first. Cuts three and four were higher. Cut five below the first two. The sixth was the worst for it sliced directly in the crease. Miguel yelped in pain. Crane smiled sadistically.
Mr. Crane returned to his desk. "Dismissed." Miguel pulled up his overalls and hooked the strap. He picked up his satchel and left, silently.
His little brother was waiting for him. "Don't tell Dad; he'll beat me again."
"It sounded extra hard today. Crane picks on you."
"Yes, it was. He does not like us."
"Because he does not. Hurry, Marco, we must not be late getting home."
In the barn, Miguel again dropped his overalls to allow Marco to rub some salve into the cruel marks. The young one had to fight back the tears; he wanted to be as brave as his big brother. They started their chores.
© Copyright A.I.L. August 13, 2007
12: The challenge was to start (or end) the story with the given line.
"RUN!" I shouted as soon as I saw them.
We both ran as fast as we could down the alley. They couldn't drive the fuzzmobile after us because the alley was full of junk and had a couple of turns. We would be home free as soon as we got through because we could get lost in the park across the street. What we did not know about was the trash pickup. The truck had nosed into the alley and was picking up an overfilled dumpster. It was raining construction debris and we had to stop.
It really was not our night for it wasn't the old cop who could play Santa without a pillow, but the rookie. He had been in Special Forces and was in top shape. "Come here, boys." he commanded.
We did. We knew he could break us in two just by knocking us about. "Good evening, Officer." we said playing innocent. He laughed and snapped handcuffs on our right wrists. He held the middle and led us out to his cruiser. We were very scared as he put us in the back and closed the door. There were iron grills over the windows and no door handles. It was like being in a cell. We were scared shitless.
We sat on the bench in the station for many long draggy hours. Every time we looked about, the desk sergeant barked at us to look straight ahead. The clock behind him hardly moved. Next to the clock hung a strange item with a wooden handle and a leather strap. Eventually they spoke to us. We had been caught on the security cameras and they had found the swag in the alley. They had us. Our lives were over. At sixteen they would send us to the reformatory and that meant we would not graduate high school. We had screwed up – royally.
We heard the sergeant and rookie talking. "When I was starting out, we used that on first offenders." while pointing to the thing on the wall. We looked at each other and wondered if there was an alternative to the reformatory. They made us the offer. We took it – it had to be better than the other.
They removed the cuffs and told us to strip right there in front police station. Then we had to bend over the railing. We weren't comfortable. The sergeant gave the rookie the tawse. "Twenty should convince them of the errors of their ways." he said with a chuckle.
We both yelled for each and every cut of the tawse that landed on our asses. We were bawling before it was half over. Our tails were flaming red hot.
Still naked and crying, our fathers dragged us out to the car and took us home. They had watched the whole thing. In the morning we got lectured and were grounded forever.
We couldn't sit right for weeks.
© Copyright A.I.L. August 27, 2007
13: A Not my kink challenge – write about some other kink than one usually does.
Changed at The Open Cage
Every Wednesday when Alberto left work, he went to The Open Cage as his wife was at her club meetings. There he would, after a couple of doubles, ogle the ladies and make smartass remarks. He was, of course, afraid to even suggest that one of them leave with him and go to the local hourly motel. The regular patrons knew him and thought he was a joke. The bartender did not eject him because it was a slow time and his cash was most green
The Wednesday crowd gradually got fed up with this obnoxious male chauvinistic pig and decided that he needed to be taught a lesson. They made plans and one afternoon he found himself surrounded by a bevy of large woman whose body types he had indicated were his favorite. Alberto always talked of how women groveled for his attention and his favors. Truth be told, Alberto had known but one woman, his wife, in his life and only as the puritanical sex book his mother had given him just before his marriage advised. These women had a different view of the female/male relationship. They didn't have any doubt that women must be in charge and that Alberto needed to learn his place. Flattered, Alberto was easily enticed into the backroom where his fate was sealed. The women, surrounding him, told him the sort of things that he dreamed of hearing but never had in real life. They wanted to see his wonderful body, so slowly they stripped him; suit coat and tie; belt and shoes; shirt and trousers; T-shirt and briefs. Although he saw himself as an Adonis, he was soft and flabby from years of neglect. He did not even rise to the occasion.
He was shocked when they then told him unpleasant truths of his inferiority and inadequacies. He thought of fleeing but his clothes were nowhere in sight and he was ashamed leave naked. He was soon begging for release, promising to change and never to return. They laughed and ridiculed him even more. He was hysterical. He did not appreciate the irony of that diagnosis.
Alberto couldn't comprehend why they lectured him like he was a little naughty boy although it was so effective that he was practically crying. One of the women sat in a large, sturdy chair and patted her lap. When he did not get the message a couple of the others grabbed him and pulled him across her lap. He was held in position as she SPANKED him VERY HARD with a HEAVY HAIRBRUSH. He yelped for each and every painful spank and she kept at it until he was bawling like a well-spanked little boy always does. They led him back into the front room and parked him in a corner with his hands on his head for an hour with his hot red tail on display.
They ordered him to return the following Wednesday and warned him that he had better change his ways.
© Copyright A.I.L. August 27, 2007
14: Gothic – dark and sinister! Perhaps I'm pushing a bit calling this gothic but my protagonist is a modern, twenty-first century lad not one from a third of a millennium ago so he sees an old abandoned, haunted house a bit differently than a lad of those times long past.
There was a loud, piecing scream.
Morgan realized that it was his own scream.
How did he get into this predicament? His mind flashed back to a few hours earlier when he had, freely and purposely, walked up the hill to the old abandoned mansion never believing that it was haunted. Haunted was for babies. He knew that the others would be watching from hidden places to see if he was a man or a mouse. It was dark for the sun had set long before and even the crescent moon was now gone. He was dressed warmly in preparation for the long chilly end of October.
The porch steps creaked. The door squealed on its rusty hinges. By the light of his flashlight he could see the mess. He started up the stairs. They too, complained about his footsteps. The railing was loose. He made it to the next floor. The wind was howling through broken windows and even the wall. Two more floors to go.
He carefully stepped over the missing step as he made his way to the third level. The attic stairs were different. They were hidden behind a narrow door that he had to yank hard to open. His heart was pounding as he made his way up. It was dark and drafty. The wind howled. He was alone. His mind said there was nothing to hurt him here but his gut disagreed. He wished that he had peed before he started but then just did it through the broken louvers. Time seemed to creep.
Then he heard them. The creaking of the porch steps, the floors and stairs. It was comforting. He turned out his light. Then they were on the attic steps. They had big, bright lights. He was waiting in the pentagram painted in the center of the space. They surrounded him. He had been told what to do. Just being there, waiting, had been part of the ordeal. He knew he had to do it right to join.
In the wordless silence, he removed his clothes. He tossed everything aside until he was in his birthday suit. He did not hesitate nor rush but did it as calmly as he could. He wanted to be cool. It was cold but he pretended not to notice. He had to fight his modesty constantly reminding himself that they had bodies just like his and his was nothing to be ashamed of. They turned down their lights.
He placed his heavy belt on the specified vertex and assumed the position: bent over and grasping his ankles. He waited.
One of them picked up the belt. He steeled himself as best he could. It seared as it connected with his butt for it was not a baby cut. Morgan felt great pain. He bit his lip to keep from yelling like a baby. Then there was another cut and another.
He screamed for each one but never moved determined to prove himself.
© Copyright A.I.L. August 30, 2007
15: This is a Someone Else's Kink story. I combined two sorts of things in this one. First, I've taken someone else's often used idea of a child wanting a spanking to an extreme and, second, added the be careful what you wish for warning.
The Right Way
Ten-year-old Zachary Mayhawk was most upset with his parents. They were not raising him correctly in his opinion. "Correctly" was the way all the other boys on the block were brought up. For a long time he had been pleading with his parents to do the right thing; to give him the things that all his friends got. Zachary's parents were at a loss as the lad was becoming unmanageable. They consulted experts but their approach conformed to the most modern child raising theories.
After complaining for forever, Zachary took his parents to court. His lawyer pulverized the parents' witness for their modern theories were just personal opinions without real experience to back them up. They each left the witness stand looking like well-spanked children – very contrite. His witnesses did well for they were mature, experienced experts with lots of real data to support their opinions.
Zachary won the case and his parents were ordered by the court to provide for his proper upbringing.
The media surrounded young Zachary on the courthouse steps. They took lots of pictures and asked lots of silly questions. Mr. Mayhawk tried to get him to come but he refused delighting in the attention of the journalists. His father reached his limit and dragged Zachary down the steps. The boy protested and the photographers took lots of pictures. Mr. Mayhawk sat down on a bench and started to lecture his son about the need to listen and to obey and to come when called. Failure had consequences!
Zachary was about to experience such consequences for the first time.
Holding his son tightly, Mr. Mayhawk opened Zach's belt and pants. Zach protested but without effect for both pants and underpants were yanked down. He was quickly flipped over his father's lap and spanked very hard. The cameras went into overdrive as the hard spanks turned Zachary's bottom bright red, brought copious tears to his eyes and loud wails of pain. All was recorded for posterity.
Zachary stood between Mr. Mayhawk's legs being hugged until he stopped crying. When his dad said it was time to go, he dutifully said: "Yes, Father."
It was all over the news that evening as the local human interest story since it isn't every day that a boy wins a lawsuit against his parents. Zachary did not like that his first spanking was shown on the local TV channel and his red butt in the paper. They showed him with the caption: "Zach learns that SPANKINGS HURT!"
One enterprising reporter spoke with his father later that night and Zachary was horrified to read about that interview. "Yes, now that I've spanked Zach and saw how effective it is, I'll happily obey the court's orders as long as he lives under my roof. Of course, as he grows, I'll have use other things – strap and paddle – rather than my hand."
A month and twenty spankings later Zachary was thinking that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to sue to get spanked.
© Copyright A.I.L. August 30, 2007
16: This one is edge because I consider it to be extreme and beyond the usual fetish play as it deals with an extreme and bloody extra-judicial whipping.
Justice in Lone Black Oak
The sheriff was worried. He had seen the notorious Terrible Dan ride into town with his sidekick taking the back, rather than the main, street. He was certain that the two men were planning something but he did not know what. As sheriff it was his job to prevent any trouble. The two left their horses at the livery stable before checking into the hotel for three nights. After eating they went to their room. If they did anything that night, they would be hard to track for it was certain to storm before dawn. Although their flight would be slow, the chase would be impossible. The sheriff alerted the deputies and they kept close watch.
It had been raining heavily by the time the pair snuck out of the hotel. They got their mounts from the unattended livery stable and rode around to the back of the bank. It was easy to get into the building. The safe would require a lot more effort. The sheriff and his deputies waited until the two were ready to blow the safe open when they captured the pair.
The circuit judge was not due again for nine months at the very least. The mayor had made it very clear how the town felt about having to feed and watch parasites. The two were tied to their saddles and led out of town unseen by the good town folks in the storm. Two miles out of town they stopped. The two criminals were stripped and tied to trees. The sheriff took out the bullwhip. Normally, he only cracked it and got the desired results. Occasionally, he let the end touch a rump to encourage a stubborn draft beast to move. This was not a normal situation. This time a severe lesson was needed to teach human devils.
The rain continued as the sheriff used the whip over and over on the naked backs of the bank robbers. Each and every time the black snake whip connected, there was a loud scream of pain like that of wild beasts. The storm swallowed the howls so that even the coyotes were not disturbed. A welt would form and soon bleed especially when the cuts crossed as they often did. In less than an hour both were covered with the most painful welts from their necks to their ankles.
The pair were cut down. They lay face down alongside the now muddy trail. Not having brought a bucket of seawater, a deputy covered the cuts with salt leaving the rain to finish the job. The two criminals squealed in pain.
"Don't EVER come back here!" snarled the sheriff. "Next time you leave as oxen!"
The Law returned to town leaving the two to crawl away.
After a while the criminals slowly got up and fetched their horses. They started hobbling away from town to lick their wounds. They cursed a lot and plotted revenge but deep inside they knew that they had best stay away.
© Copyright A.I.L. September 3, 2007
17: Suddenly, an extra day for the SSC because of administrative reasons. Well, it gave me an idea. This story is based on the picture of thick wad of cash shown at http://socsexualityspanking.org/ssc/2007/pictures/money.jpg
Please note that this is an 'as told to' report rather than my own narrative. I would never attempt such despicable behavior. I'm sure that you will understand why names have been redacted.
Losing the SSC
Wow, an extra day for the SSC. A chance to assure being the prize winner since I won that fat roll at last night's poker game. There's plenty to grease the palms of the reviewers who will vote for the best of the SSC. I got the names and the map of Assville showing where they each live. I waited until it was dark and with only a crescent moon, I'd be able to visit them all without being seen – which won't have been good at all. I started on the edge of town where traffic is lightest.
At nine, I knocked on the door of <redacted> and we quickly came to an understanding. I peeled a couple of C-notes off and handed them over. It only took four minutes. The second house was just down the block and the results were the same. I was feeling good and figured that I'd be done before one.
<Redacted> was not at home so I moved onto the next one. Again, it was a breeze and extra easy as they are a couple – so two with one blow so to speak. By ten, I'd gotten a third through the list. Much faster than I expected.
I circled about town and continued on the other side. I was up to the thirteenth and got this strange thought – it's good that I'm not triskaidekaphobia. Like at all the doors before, I rang and explained my mission upon entering. The deal was struck although it was for three rather than two. I was about to leave but <redacted> noticed that I was admiring the item on the wall. He insisted that I examine it closely and took it down. It was a beautiful, well-oiled tawse and I admired its inherent beauty and fine craftsmanship. <Redacted> assured me that it does a great job and asked if I would like a demonstration. I declined politely as I handed it back.
Then, without warning, <redacted> raised it up and brought it crashing down on my rear. Even through my pants it smarted and I yelled in both pain and shock. Before I could recover, <redacted> whacked me twice again. This left me very vulnerable and <redacted> grabbed my arms and snapped a pair of handcuffs on me. Naturally, I yelled but <redacted> just laughed and told me the neighbors were used to it. At the same time, he had yanked my belt and pants open. Once they were down, I couldn't kick without falling. <Redacted> had me! He pushed me over the arm of the couch. I couldn't get up and I really learnt how effective that beautiful tawse is. <Redacted> turned my butt into a raging nova and reduced me to a whimpering, bawling blob.
A couple of hours later, <redacted> showed me a recording of the deal we made. I had to release him and all the others from the deals I made or else.
Now, I'm broke, sore and a loser.
© Copyright A.I.L. September 16, 2007
The End of Collection
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