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: 15 Jan 2018
That Sunday evening, we packed up as much of Jamie’s possession as could be stored in his little VW. What he needed for the few days we left in my cabin for him to use and take with him.
He would take my car on Monday and Tuesday, but Wednesday morning he would have to drive his VW back to grad school for that day’s classes, and pay for the additional days he would spend in the room at the trailer.
Monday and Tuesday, after classes, I hustled around trying to clean up the cabin, and erase any trace or evidence of Jamie’s having been living there. It was a good thing as I wanted to eliminate all obvious giveaway’s to visitors like my parents.
Jamie left early Wednesday morning to allow more time for driving his ancient VW to school in Tennessee. He would stay until Monday, returning after classes to resume living with me.
Wednesday afternoon, around 3 or so, my parents arrived. They carried in food already prepared or that Mom would finish cooking at my cabin.
I realized how much I had missed, and loved, my parents on seeing them after so long, and smelling the familiar, savoury fragrances of my Mom’s cooking. The cabin was pretty clean, and I had put fresh linens on the bed so my parents could sleep there, while I would take the couch for my bed the next 4 nights.
We ordered a pizza for that night, sitting a talking for a while. They asked about school, and was I still on track to graduate in May, which I confirmed I was.
Later, I got an extra pillow and blanket for my to use in sleeping on the couch, letting my parents have my bed. With the heat on in the cabin, I slept undisturbed during the night.
In the morning, we all got up and cleaned up, with me deferring to my parents, letting them clean up first. When I was ready for the day, Mom had the turkey and stuffing in the oven, and was cooking a potato casserole and green beans and squash in the microwave.
I hurried to set the small table for the 3 of us. In mid-afternoon, we sat down together for the best Thanksgiving dinner I’d had in a couple of years. It was fun, and Dad and I sat watching football into the evening.
Late that evening, I replaced my bed on the couch, my parents occupied my bed again, and we settled in to sleep and rest into Black Friday. The next morning, was a repeat of Thanksgiving Day, except Mom made breakfast for us all.
We all went for a brisk walk in the woods before returning to make turkey sandwiches for lunch. Mom found, and began to wash, my dirty laundry. After a while, I saw her go and talk softly to Dad for a few minutes, before they both left to go into my bedroom.
The next thing that happened was the two of them came into confront me.
Lincoln, is something going on here? Dad asked.
No, no, Dad? Why do you ask? I responded, instantly alarmed within.
Well, Mom says while she is laundering your clothes, she found some clothes, underwear, jeans, shirts that she doesn’t recognize as yours, he explained.
Oh, that’s because I got some new clothes since you saw me last, I glibly replied.
So, nothing is different here, is that what you’re saying, Lincoln? Dad asked again.
Ah, no, er, I mean, yes, Dad. Everything’s fine, I answered.
There was an uneasy, unusually long silence, while Mom walked away. Returning, she had in her hand a pair of jeans, a long-sleeve polo shirt, and several pair of white briefs, all of which I recognized immediately as Jamie’s.
Look at these clothes, Lincoln, she spoke to me.
There is no way these clothes could be yours, or fit you, Mom pointed out, holding the jeans and shirt up to reveal their length.
Now, son, do you want to change your answer, come clean, and tell us the truth? Dad asked.
Oh, ah, ah, that, ah, it’s, ah, well there was a guy who was hitchhiking and homeless a while back, and, ah, I gave him a place, um, to stay for a couple of days. He must, ah, have forgotten them, ah, left them, I added.
Is that so, son? Are you sure about that? Dad persisted in interrogating me.
Yeah, sure. That’s gotta be it, I answered.
Well, how do you explain the two drawers of clothes in the dresser in your bedroom, and the clothes stuffed way back in your closet, son? Mom says they are not your clothes, and wouldn’t fit you at all,
I was caught, dead on the spot. Foolishly, and afraid, I could not let myself admit what was increasingly appearing to be a fact.
Ah, I’m not, ah, sure, ah, about whuh-uht you, ah, you’re saying, Dad, I replied.
That’s enough, Lincoln. You never were a good liar, and you’re answers, and the facts, give the lie to what you’re saying. My face started turning scarlet.
Now, I want the truth from you, young man. Right away! he barked.
Ah, ah, Dad, ah, I’m not, um, lying, ah, I,...
Dad came right up in front of me, looming over me, looking downward into my face.
Lincoln Collins, you know what’s going to happen now, for lying, don’t you? he questioned.
My face and upper body were feeling very hot and perspiring, my ears, neck, and face beet red.
Get those clothes off immediately, Mr. Collins ordered.
Underwear too, young man. Feeling
suddenly jittery and nervous, I hesitated.
Mr. Collins’ large, strong hands grasped my shirt and began pulling it up, off my arms and over my head. He tossed it on the floor, and taking my shoulders sat me down on the couch and began pulling off my shoes, socks, jeans, and t-shirt.
Yanking me up off the couch, back onto my feet, he ordered,
Now the boxer briefs, son. Reluctantly,
but without delay, I slid them off, leaving me standing there, shivering totally nude for a few seconds.
Sitting down on the couch, Mr. Collins took the thin, small arm of his youngest son, dragged me like a young boy around to his right, and hauled him down and across the Father’s lap.
I know, and so do you, Lincoln,
you’re lying to us. You know have this coming, don’t you, son? he demanded.
No, no I don’t, Dad. Stop, please no. Don’t do this, Daaad! I called up to him, now hanging upside
down, bare, over his lap.
That elicited a sudden, hard, series of spanks with his hand to my bare bottom and the backs of my upper legs.
Aaaaah, ah, ouch, ah, ouch! I reacted.
What happens when you lie, son? What do you get? Dad insisted.
Ah, ah, spah-anked, ah, buh-uht, please, no! Please, Dad!
Looking to his right on the couch, Dad spied the old, ping pong paddle stuck along side one of the couch cushions. He pulled it out, looked at it, and began applying it immediately to my upended, vulnerable bare bottom.
Oh, no! I thought. Here we go again! I can’t taaaake this!
Aaaaah, pleeeeez, Dad! Daaa-aaad! Daddy, please, I’m sorry. Pleeeeeez, ah, doooon’t, ah, spaaaank meeeeee, aaaaaha, noooooo-aaaaa-pleeeeeeez!
I squealed and yelped with each smack, starting to squirm and writhe on his lap under the onslaught of spanks. As they continued, become sharper, faster, and more intense, my legs started kicking as well, and my voice became unsteady and cracking.
Now, I want the truth from you, young man. If I have to spank you several times a day every day we’re here, I am going to get the truth, even if it costs you a butt you can’t sit down on for weeks! Do you hear me, Lincoln?
Even though it had been nearly 3 years, I recalled vividly what the course of getting spanked by my Dad was like. I was way-too-acquainted with the havoc it wreaked on my butt and in his brain, delivering a thrashing that shocked both my body and my psyche.
By now, I knew quite well how much spankings hurt, yet I was never really prepared for the pain and humiliating, total helplessness of the situation. The rapidly increasing pain quickly launched me bucking and rocking on Dad’s lap, squirming, writhing, trying to avoid the agony of the paddle
It soon evoked also my begging and bargaining: I didn’t need to be spanked; I was sorry; I knew I was wrong, knew better and wouldn’t do it again; I had learned my lesson already. I would listen, do what he and Mom told me, be good, not be bad again.
Of course, to Dad it was the same old tune he’d heard most of my life whenever I was put over his knee for a spanking. I knew I would be spanked soundly, hard, thoroughly, effectively, and repeatedly, until Dad was satisfied I had come to terms with my wrongdoing, and would obey him.
We both know you’re saying all this because you don’t want to be spanked, Lincoln; but unless you are prepared, now, to tell Mom and me the full truth, no details omitted, you can be sure there will be more of these, and worse today, tomorrow, and Sunday before we leave. One way or another, Lincoln, you are going to come clean, tell us the truth, and learn from a very hard and painful lesson that truth is what is always your duty, young man.
Always it was the same (even after such a long hiatus). My wailing, writhing, ascending-pitched shrieks were the preface to breaking down, collapsing and conceding I had been, and was, a misbehaving, bad boy who deserved and needed the spanking I was getting.
I would stiffen into a mighty surge of strength and muscle, with my feet and fingers spread wide, my eyes, clenched, squinting then widening, my mouth agape. It was my last, frantic stand, trying to break away from the lap across which I was being severely spanked, or to resist the inevitable effect of the biting volley igniting my cheeks and upper thighs.
I struggled to evade, to hold on, to hold out, to avoid being defeated by another spanking. Always, in the end, I lost.
Choking, wailing sobs wretched forth from deep down within, as I was babbling semi-intelligible words and phrases, uttered like a chastened toddler. My small, compact, little frame lurched and jolted all over my Father’s knees, as the old, paddle scorched the bare, branded, hot, red-raw flesh of my buttocks and upper legs.
When he began striking my inner thighs, I screeched in pain and misery, kicking my legs widely apart and up high. I snapped, capitulating, surrendering, submitting to the spanking I was getting, to Dad’s right and authority to spank me, and my need and deserving of it.
I sobbed heavy, heaving sobs, have acceded to this hated, dreaded, spanking. Still, I would not, could not, tell him what he demanded. After what seemed like hours, but was less than 15 minutes of spanking, Dad stopped, jerked me harshly right up off his lap, stood up, and frogmarched me over to a corner of the cabin for a forced, meditative period of remorse and contrition.
Burying my face and nose in the cabin, he scolded me more.
You are going to stand there, with your hands on your head, as you remember, Lincoln. Think long and hard about this spanking, about your lying, and whether you want more and more of this treatment until you come clean.
When I ask you in a while if you are ready to tell me the truth, it will be your chance to avoid the otherwise inevitable repeat of this spanking with another one. If you do not tell us the truth, we will go on like this all day and into the evening. Continued refusal will be met with another day tomorrow like this one today. Think seriously about it, Lincoln.
As hurting and degraded as I was from having been spanked harshly by my Dad like a little kid, I was also shocked and unnerved at the hard-on I’d gotten while bouncing around, being trounced, on my Dad’s lap. Standing in the corner, my solider was still saluting erect, bobbing, needing release and relief.
There would no none, however. Dad asked Mom to sit and monitor me while he looked around the house. He found the tire tracks of the VW, and then Jamie’s pair of hiking boots pushed under the bed.
When he returned about 30 minutes later, he was furious. He summoned me from the corner, and stared me straight in the face and eyes as he demanded, commanded really, me to tell him the full, unadulterated truth.
Bursting out crying again, in the face of the impending, second spanking I knew was coming, I squalled,
I did, Daddy! I did. I-uh-uh-toooold-uh-uh-you-uh-thuh-uh-truth!
He sat back down, dragged his son back across his lap, and began a fiery, intense assault on my boyish backside. I was squealing and squirming around, all the while pleading and begging my Father to stop spanking me.
When Dad ignored my desperate pleas and entreaties, and continued the spanking, remembering the many spankings from Dad in the past, I began begging loudly and childishly until finally I crumbled, collapsing, capitulating to the punishment being delivered.
Sobbing, choking, gasping, and gagging, I tried to resign myself to dangling over his knees, while screeching and shrieking with each new, harsh smack to his bottom and upper legs. Finally, Dad stopped, allowing me to bawl while continuing suspended over his legs.
As I began to regain some pittance of self-control and composure, Dad firmly, but gently, lifted me up off his lap onto my bare feet. Once again, my hands and arms flew to my scorched behind, clasping, rubbing, and massaging in desperation, while my young, male member bounced and bobbed, still engorged and aroused, my face looking like a wounded animal.
Dad sent me back to the corner to stand, hands on head, nose in crease, to ponder and consider the consequences of my refusal to obey, and to tell him the truth. I stood there weeping more, waiting, hating my situation, also wanting to find a place to jack my clamouring wanker for relief.
Suffice to say that Black Friday was spent as
spankings Friday, as the day went on like this, stopping only for lunch, when I was forced to sit naked on a chair and eat, and likewise with dinner. By midnight, I had been spanked 8 times, stood in the corner 8 times, before I was allowed to go to be on the couch.
Saturday was worse. I was hurting and aching so bad, I could hardly walk, bend, or sit. Yet, Dad continued to apply a total of 6 spankings before, at last, I crumbled, defeated.
I could take it no more, and submitted.
Okaaaay, Daddy, okaaaay! Daddy, I’m sorry! I’ll-duh-doooooo it! I will, Daddy, I will! Aahh, please,
I’ll do it, uh-uh-tuh-tell-uh-you-ou-thuh-uh-tru-uth-uh-uh-Daddy! Buh-uht-Duh-addy, puh-pleeeez-uh-uh-stuh-opppp-uh-thuh-uh-spuh-aaaang-kuh-eeeeeng! Uh-uh-waaaa-uh-uh-Duh-addeeee-uh-puh-leeeeez-huh-uh-waaaaaa!
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