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A Collection of Short Stories
2007 - Part 2/2

by Y Lee Coyote

Go to the contents page for this series.

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!"

WHACK!

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.

The End

© 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.

The End

© 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.

Spankaholic

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.

<tsk tsk>

<awful>

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.

<tsk tsk>

<shame>

Help me.  Please help me.  Please stop me from calling I-SPANK-U.

The End

© 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.

Protecting Billy

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.

"Who's Vincent?"

"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.

The End

© 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.

The End

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.

Dismissal Time

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