I awoke hours later. I was naked on his couch but covered with a thin sheet. I didn’t remember undressing. I didn’t remember getting onto the couch. I rolled onto my side, my dick was hard but that was to alleviate the urge to pee.
What had happened, I asked myself, but I couldn’t remember. At least my asshole doesn’t hurt, I thought. It didn’t. That was something. I sat up and the urge to pee was worse, so bad it hurt. I couldn’t find my clothes so got up with the sheet around me and started for where the guest bathroom was. His bedroom door was closed and for a moment I thought about opening it, spying on him, maybe even climbing into bed but I stopped myself.
I was worse than a guest, I was uninvited. I used the bathroom, awkwardly, then went back out to the living room where I sat on the couch and debated trying to find my clothes, even going home naked, but I was too tired so I leaned back against the cushion and fell back asleep.
It was several more hours before I woke up again this time to the sound of him in the kitchen. I felt dirty inside and out. I still had the sheet over me, though it did little to mask my form. This time as I looked around I realized my pants were gone and instead my possessions were on the coffee table. What had I done?
There was no way out of it. I got up, wrapped the sheet around me like a toga, and headed into the kitchen where he stood in his boxers and old t-shirt. He had a slight growth of beard. Sunlight was coming through the blinds and partially illuminating him. It was a beautiful picture which I tried hard to memorize.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“What happened?” I responded.
“You don’t remember? You pissed yourself and then fell asleep on my chair. It was a pain in the ass to clean it up. And not the good kind of pain either, real smelly work.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You should be.”
I thought for a moment he was going to go into a long speech but he didn’t. He motioned for me to sit and he continued to cook. I watched him move around. There was something pleasant about such a domestic situation though I quickly realized he had only made breakfast for himself. It was okay. I felt miserable and I wasn’t hungry.
“I guess I blacked out,” I said.
“How much do you remember?”
It seemed like a dream, like someone else, and yet it was real. It had happened. I told him I remember getting back from the bar and going to his front door. I told him I remembered asking him what he wanted from me and him telling me. I told him I remembered him getting me another drink though I shouldn’t have had one.
“Did I throw up?”
“No, thank goodness,” he said.
“I hate cleaning up vomit,” I said.
“Me too,” he replied.
“I really pissed myself?”
“The jeans are in the drier. You weren’t wearing any underwear though.”
“I lost them at the bar,” I said.
“One of those nights,” he said.
I looked to him. I noted his breakfast, the way he sat, and the feeling of his home. I felt terrible, really terrible, one of the few times in my life I regretted what I had done and I felt like crying. There had to be some way to repay him. There had to be some way to make amends. My jeans were in his drier, my shirt was probably in Tucker’s car and though I had etched another notch in my belt of sexual conquests it didn’t feel like a great victory.
“How can I make it up to you?” I asked.
“I don’t know if you can,” he said.
I lowered my head in defeat, the hangover, or maybe still being drunk was having an effect on me. I wanted to plead with him but felt foolish sitting there basically naked, covered by a bed sheet while my pants were in the drier. There had to be a way out, I thought and then I remembered what he had said to me the night before and what I had repeated to him that morning.
“But you said you wanted me to be a better person,” I said.
“I do.”
“How?” I asked.
He stopped eating, put down his fork, and took a sip of coffee, then put the cup back down before sitting back. His hands went to his lap and he looked over at me.
“I think you need discipline,” he said.
“You told me that before but what does that mean?”
“Honestly, I think you need to be spanked,” he answered.
Spanked? Just the word sent shivers down my spine. It felt like an archaic word. No one I knew had ever been spanked. I had never been spanked. I kind of knew it still happened but not where I lived, not in modern, civilized places. My face got warm and I was pretty sure I was blushing. Not just spanked but by him, my neighbor, and a man that I thought, that I felt attracted to, that made me consider it. I didn’t know how he would do it or what he would use. Would I be bare assed? He barely moved as he watched me thinking about it. Was he messing with me?
“Are you messing with me?”
He took another sip of coffee.
“No,” he said. “And not just once but in a systemized way. We’d figure out the ways you need to improve your life and then we’d make a deal where if you break the rules or you aren’t living up to what we agree then you’ll get spanked.”
I was speechless.
“Think about it,” he said before resuming eating.
It felt like I had run into a wall. It felt like my breath had been taken from my lungs. He saw a problem. I knew I had a problem. And yet it felt too direct, though there was no other way to say it. He had been hinting at it with the notion of discipline, but somehow I thought that meant waking up early, exercising, and the sorts of things you do in Boot Camp.
Everything seemed more real to me as I sat there and I was desperate to get away from it so I cleared my throat and asked him where the drier was and told him I’d be leaving. He nodded and told me where to find my pants. I got up from the table and went to where he said. Inside the machine was my pants. I took them out, looked around, but he hadn’t followed me so I put them on there, balled up the sheet and set it on the washer before I made my way back to the living room where I picked up my things. It felt so strange to just be walking out like that after what he had said and yet I felt compelled to do it. Spanked? No way, I shook my head.
“I’m leaving now,” I said.
“Okay, have a nice day,” he replied.
Still shirtless I hobbled out the front door of his house with my cane. Once again I stopped on the porch to light a cigarette, and then I walked the short distance to my house. My parents were awake in the living room. My father was reading the newspaper and my mother was on her tablet filling in a crossword puzzle. They barely noticed me as I slipped by them to go to my room.
Inside my room I locked the door again, stripped down, and crawled into bed. How would spanking help? I thought about it for several minutes before I fell asleep. When I awoke hours later it was to the sound of knocking on my door.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s your father, listen we need to talk,” he said. “If you’re awake then come downstairs.”
I rolled onto my back and said that I would be down after I got a shower. But before I even got out of bed I got my laptop and opened it. I searched for spanking. I searched for ‘spanked men’ and the images and the videos that popped up were intriguing to say the least. Flat on my stomach I was starting to get an erection as I looked over it. He wanted to do that with me? It was enough of an erotic thought that I jerked off a quick one into a sock that I threw in the dirty laundry hamper before heading to the bathroom.
As I stood under the water I thought about pissing myself. I thought about Hugh and I remembered to wash my hair twice. I thought about the way my life was going. I thought about my binge drinking and I thought about how I could tell my parents to just fuck off. They had never been involved with my life in that way and it felt ridiculous for them to try now, to try anything. Grant was someone else. He was someone I could look up to and respect. He was someone who might know me intimately and yet be a stranger. Spanked, I thought, somehow it was becoming an appealing idea.
When I finished my shower I went back to my room where I got dressed. I styled my hair the way I liked which was messy, picked up my cane, and headed downstairs. My parents were still in the living room so I joined them.
“We need to talk,” my father said. “There’s no easy way to say this but seeing you come in this morning I feel it needs to be said.” He paused. I thought for a moment my mother was going to say something but she didn’t.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We’re worried about you. Your grades have been sliding down. We never see you doing homework or reading a book. I know a lot of it is online now but even so it doesn’t seem like you have been working hard.”
“Dad, it’s community college,” I said. “It’s not very difficult.”
“Well then that means your grades should be better,” my mother said.
I was half stunned by her words. The sentiment was true I just didn’t think she would say that to me. Even the conversation felt weird as my parents had never really been confrontational as long as I got average grades, as long as I played along with the system.
“My grades are fine. I’m passing everything.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Passing isn’t enough. Have you figured out what you want to do with your life? Do you have any passions?”
Were we talking about my grades or my life? It felt like a weird way to confront me, to ask me then what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Very few people knew what they wanted to do for the rest of their life, I thought.
“You don’t even have a job,” my mother said.
I needed to confront them. I decided to put my foot down.
“Where is this coming from?”
They looked at each other, then to me.
“We worry about you,” my father said. “It’s one thing to be gay. We’re okay with that but staying out all night and coming home like you did. Are you safe? Do you use protection?”
It felt like my parents were grabbing at every part of my life and ripping it to shreds. I felt like running from the room. How could they ask me about my sex life? I was an adult. It was my life.
“We just want you to think about it,” my mother said.
“Tuition isn’t cheap. I’m willing to pay for you to take classes during the summer but I want to see real motivation. I want to see your grades get better.”
I stared at them for a moment and I wanted to say something back to them. I wanted to unleash years of pent up anger but I knew it would only make things worse and it felt like they had finished. Their point had been made. I had been given an ultimatum.
“Can I go now?” I asked.
My father nodded.
I got to my feet and limped away with my cane out the front door where I lit a cigarette and took a seat on the steps. Everyone was against me, I thought, and yet they were right. My parents were right because I didn’t have any passion and Grant was right because I was misbehaving. I thought about calling Tucker or someone else to get out of there but I didn’t want to be around people. I knew the slightest thing would set me off. Of all things I felt like crying.
I pushed myself to my feet and started walking. At first I didn’t know where I was going but as I made my way through the neighborhood I remembered the park nearby so I headed there. When I got close I could hear some people on the basketball court but no one was in the actual grass area so I made my way to the most private place I could find under a tree. I put my back to it, slid down to my ass. I pulled at a few blades and dropped them in the dirt ring.
That’s when I started crying. It was pure frustration. I was doing everything I was supposed to do. I was doing everything that was asked of me. There was no plan. There was no goal. I was making it up as I went along just like everyone else, I told myself, moving from one thing to another. How does someone end up successful? How does someone end up happy? My parents had few suggestions except to find some kind of passion. And yeah, I wasn’t doing good in school, I kept above passing grades, but I hated it. School felt so fake. My breathing slowed, the tears stopped.
There was just some foolish reality, I thought afterwards, there was just this, me sitting in a park.
I decided I needed guidance. I needed someone to help me improve my life. That was what Grant said he wanted from me. He wanted me to be a better person. I knew then that I would go to him. I got to my feet, stuck my cane into the ground, and started the walk back. I would give it a try and if it didn’t work then I would do something else, I told myself.
The walk was easy. Somehow getting back always seems to take less time than going somewhere. I intentionally walked back taking a few extra turns so I wouldn’t have to see my house directly. Grant’s car was in the driveway so I knew he was home. I made my way up to his front door and I knocked. When he opened it he was dressed in a button down shirt and khaki pants.
“Hi there,” he said.
“Hello,” I replied.
He looked over my shoulder, then around a bit before returning his gaze to me. I felt foolish standing there, yet I knew there was something I had to say.
“I was thinking about what you said and I want to be a better person. My life is a mess. I don’t feel like I have any control of it. I’m doing everything everyone wants from me but they don’t tell me how to get ahead in life. I have no mentors. I need your help. I need you to guide me. I want you. I want you to show me how to live a life.”
“I don’t know if I’m that person,” he said. “My life is kind of uncertain right now.”
“But you’ve done it before and you’ll do it again. You’ll figure it out. I don’t have that experience. I’m afraid of fucking up.”
“What are you proposing?”
“I need to be spanked,” I said.
He opened the door and let me inside where he motioned for me to step into the living room. I walked over in front of his couch. He closed and locked the door.
“Do you know what you’re asking me?”
“No,” I answered.
“Take off your clothes and put them on the coffee table,” he said.
I looked to him out of the corner of my eye but he walked out of the room. I tried to listen to what he was doing but realized I wasn’t doing what he said so I stripped down. At the very least it might get sexual, I thought. My shirt, my shoes and socks, my pants, I put them all on the coffee table. I was in my boxers when he returned with something in his hand.
“You didn’t take off everything,” he said.
I watched him move to the center of the room with me. For a moment I thought he was going to pull down my underwear but instead he pushed the coffee table out of the way, then moved to the couch where he sat. He placed a hairbrush on his thigh. I put my thumbs in the waistband of my underwear and slipped them down, stepped out of them, tossed the fabric over onto my other clothes.
“This is just going to be a sample. You can decide if you want to continue afterwards. This isn’t a commitment yet.”
Standing naked there in his living room was different from anything else I had experienced of being naked in my life. It wasn’t the locker room which had its own sanctity and expected privacy of like bodies, like minds, codes of conduct and behavior. It wasn’t like my bedroom where I could close my door and expect people to politely knock. It wasn’t like my bathroom where I could lock the door. It wasn’t even like a public restroom with a stall, a blinder at a urinal, or even just hanging out some part of you. There in that semi-public space, a room of utility for getting people together, where anyone could walk in from another room, from the front door, or see me through a window, I was naked, completely. My clothes were in a pile. Each part of me vulnerable to his judgment and gaze. I rubbed my fingers together to try and distract myself. I shifted on my feet to try and relieve some tension but it remained. I was there. And it felt exciting. I felt my dick begin to grow, my balls begin to lift. I was getting off on this.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’m not going to think of things to just get you in trouble or punish you vindictively and arbitrarily. This is about improving your life. You are seriously misbehaving. You drink too much, you smoke, and you don’t have respect for people. You were drinking behind my back at the beach because you knew I wouldn’t like it. You came home the other day so drunk I had to carry you to your bed. You are putting yourself in serious danger. You weren’t polite to your parents the other day at dinner. You crashed your car. What are the state of your grades?”
“Not very good,” I said.
“From now on you will call me sir,” he said. “Do you understand?”
The command was like something out of a movie. It felt so cliche I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. How far was he going with this?
“Did you hear me?”
I was naked in his living room. How far was I willing to go?
“Yes sir,” I said.
“Good, now come over here and lay across my lap.”
I walked to him, squatted, then slowly put myself over his thighs so that my dick was against the side of his leg. It felt strange to feel my chest pressed against him in such a way even though it felt like most of my weight was on my feet. He struck me once with the backside of the brush. The pain was sharp. The sound was crisp.
“Move up more so that you’re just on the tips of your toes,” he said.
Was he repositioning me to get a better angle to strike me? What had I gotten myself into? It felt too late to go back. I wanted to see it through. I slid across his lap, smashed my hard dick down into the gap of my thighs, my balls on either side. I moved until I was on the tips of my toes like he had said. My chest was off his legs, my hands went down to the carpet. He struck me again. This time it hurt worse. This time the pain lingered in the meat of my ass. It was deep.
I thought for a moment that I had lost control but then I remembered he was doing exactly what I had told him I wanted done. I was participating in this little exercise.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 7
No comments:
Post a Comment