Date: Thu, 17 Jan 2008 10:59:02 -0800 (PST) From: Boy Smack Subject: Schoolteacher's Confessions: Part 4 (Mb spank) Shrieks of laughter cut through the moist, warm summer air, aromas of chlorine and lotion permeating everything. I stretched luxuriously in the deck chair as I watched a group of nine and ten year old boys diving into the pool. In the years I had walked through the park hoping for a glimpse of wet, near-naked boy flesh I had never once considered buying a pass and entering, but in this most remarkable summer, anything seemed possible. I couldn't sit in the pool area without obviously watching boys, and I had never had a good excuse for watching them - until now. I couldn't watch boys without running the risk of an obvious erection, but then I had never had never been so thoroughly sexually satisfied - until now. They were a beautiful group: five lithe, tanned bodies running and jumping and glistening in the sun. I only really had eyes for one of them. Water ran seductively down five bare backs, but there was only one back which I had lovingly massaged for an hour the afternoon before. Wet swimsuits clung to five pairs of buttocks, revealing every line and detail, but I had only ever pulled down one of those swimsuits and gleefully slapped the luscious flesh that to which it now clung. The musical sound of boys at play rang from five pretty mouths, but only one set of lips had been wrapped around my penis just an hour before, eagerly drinking down my seed. Ryan had been so excited when his mom gave permission for me to take him to the pool that he had shown up more than an hour before the place opened. I was delighted to find ways to occupy our time before we walked to the park and met up with his friends. Now, as I sat watching the sexy show, I reflected on how wonderful this, of all summers, had been. I was inside the gate now, not creeping along outside. I could watch these boys freely, happily remembering the passion of the morning and with a reasonable hope for more to come after lunch. Ryan's adoration for me seemed complete: he wanted to spend time with me, to play with me, and to cuddle with me. He longed to experience sexual pleasure from my hands, lips, and tongue, and he seemed genuinely to enjoy giving me the same once he had discovered the possibility. To my ongoing amazement and gratitude he continued to want me to spank him, giving me frequent access to his adorable little bottom. The rituals of spanking seemed to give him the comfort of fatherly love tinged with open eroticism, while for me; they became an open form of ritual sex. I had no intention of asking to fuck him, but whenever he was stretched across my lap or bent across a piece of furniture I could gaze on down on his bare butt, stroke it tenderly, and dream while I pounded him either gently or severely. My one disappointment was that he seemed to have had his fill of paddling. I had enjoyed swatting him even more than I had imagined I would, and I longed to see him dancing and to hear those high pitched yips and squeals again. I left the paddle out, and after a day or so I even moved it to the coffee table in the hopes that he would see it and be intrigued once again, but I seemed to have fully satisfied his curiosity. He knew that it hurt, and that it could hurt very badly, and he didn't need the paddle to get off. That left me with one sexual frustration, but on reflection, that frustration probably worked me up to a greater degree and enhanced our other sex play. Of course, while our sexual encounters are the most memorable aspect of that summer, they took up the shorter part of our time.. I spent a lot of time just hanging out with Ryan. He sat around with me while I organized and cleaned my house; I taught him to paint a room; we played basketball and board games; we talked. He opened up more and more to me as the summer went on. I learned to know him well, and his was a story I'd seen too often at school. He loved his mom, but he got frustrated with her. She was good to him, but just didn't understand boys all that well. He rarely ever saw his dad, and though he wouldn't say it out loud, he was desperately hurt by his father's lack of concern. He anxiously awaited his dad's phone calls, and when they didn't come, he lashed out angrily at the man whose love he craved. I ached for him at those times. I longed to show him even more love, to let him know that someone cared. At the same time, I knew with the bleak fatalism I had learned in my profession that no one can ever really replace a father's love. I got to know his mom better, too. Deb was tremendously grateful for the friendship I had shown her son. She had assumed he would have a quiet summer alone, and she had worried about what trouble he could get into. She thanked me effusively each time she saw me for putting up with her energetic child. I never quite knew what to say. She invited me over to dinner a few times, and I went, more to be with Ryan than for any other reason. Her own life was rather dismal, of course. Abandoned by a man who hadn't been what she thought, she had committed herself to her son, determined to make things OK for him. She hadn't done badly: she finished her schooling and got a decent job. She gave him what she could, but she was painfully aware that she couldn't be a mother and a father. I suppose she would have been happy to remarry. Thankfully, I was enough younger than she that she didn't ever look at me that way; she was just glad to have found a responsible, friendly influence in her son's life. Meanwhile, her work was like everyone's: colored by the pettiness and small frustrations that always accompany a workplace. The hospital's demands didn't conform well with her responsibilities to Ryan, and she inevitably became the rope in an ongoing tug-of-war. She came by one afternoon to make a request. In spite of all her objections, she was going to be scheduled for some evening shifts which didn't let off until midnight. Would it be a problem if I watched Ryan on those evenings? Of course I told her I was glad to help; I was quietly exuberant about the possibilities. I told her I wanted to do it at my place - no point having her walk in on us unexpected. He could sleep on the couch in the bedroom I had converted into a study. Of course I imagined him sharing my bed, but I could work that out with him. I anxiously awaited the night he would be staying, and Ryan himself was ecstatic. He shared every boy's enthusiasm about a night away from home with a friend, and like me he imagined what it would be like to spend the whole night in one another's arms. He was scheduled to stay with me the first time on a Wednesday night. On Tuesday afternoon, as he lounged in my living room, he said, "Tomorrow's my birthday." "Really?" I asked. "I had forgotten. The big one-oh!" "Yeah." "Too bad your mom has to work." I smiled mischievously at him. "We'll just have to have our own party." Ryan's grin flashed back. I bent and picked up the paddle off the school, studying it as I turned it in my hand. "You'll have to have a pretty good birthday spanking, don't you know?" I asked him. Ryan squirmed in his seat and got decidedly nervous. I put down the paddle and ruffled his hair. "Don't worry, buddy. We'll have a great time." With that I leaned down and kissed his head, and he turned his face up to kiss me on the lips. I was a little disappointed that my ploy had failed, but in light of the night-long escapade I was anticipating, I couldn't really feel that bad. The next morning I drove off to the mall to buy Ryan a present. I knew him pretty well by now, and I had no problem shopping for him. Back at the house I found him hanging out in my backyard. "Happy birthday," I called out to him. "Thanks!" he yelled as he ran over to my car and jumped up, hugging me. I left my bags in the car and spent a little while shooting baskets. Then I sent Ryan off to spend a little time with his mom. "She's already missing you. You ought to see her before you come over." "OK." he answered. "Besides, my dad is gonna call soon." I watched his sexy butt as he ran around the fence to his own yard, then took my bags inside. I busied myself in the kitchen. Deb had to be at work by four, and Ryan was supposed to be over to my place by five. I was planning to have a special dinner ready for him with his favorite foods, and I planned to give him his present before we got on to our more intimate party. The afternoon passed quickly for me, and when five o'clock rolled around, Ryan's favorite foods were all approaching perfection in my kitchen. I had seen Deb drive off earlier, but still no Ryan. Maybe his dad had called late, and he still wasn't done talking. I tried to slow down dinner, but by five thirty I was getting worried. All the burners were on low, so I headed out the back door and over to Ryan's house. I banged on the back door and waited, but there was no answer. I tried the knob and found it open. I walked in and called for Ryan, but he didn't answer. I was growing truly worried at this point. I went upstairs and looked around - no Ryan. I ran out of the house, ready to run back to mine and call Deb, but I paused by the garage. Ryan's bike was usually leaning against the wall, but it was missing. I peered in the garage window, and I saw no bike there either. I paused to think for a minute. Ryan was missing, but he was obviously out on his bike. He hadn't been kidnapped; he was just being unaccountably and uncharacteristically stupid. I had been on the verge of calling Deb, but she had been catching all kinds of flak at work. If I called, she would come home. If she came home from the first evening shift which she had fought so hard to avoid, and if it turned out that Ryan was just around the block, she could be in a load of trouble. I decided to look for him first. I ran into my kitchen, turned off all the burners and left dinner to go cold on the stove. I grabbed my keys and jumped in my car, heading off into the neighborhood to begin criss-crossing the streets. Two blocks from the park I saw one of Ryan's friends who had been at the pool with us. What was his name? John? Jake? Oh yeah - "Josh!" He turned to look at me, obviously confused. "It's Kent, Ryan's neighbor." "Oh." The confusion left his face. "Hi." "Hey, have you seen Ryan today?" "Yeah, he was riding his bike up that way." He gestured toward the park. "Did you talk to him?" "I yelled his name but he didn't answer. He looked mad or something." A suspicion began to dawn in my mind. I had a pretty good idea what was happening. It made sense, but as my fear began to dissipate, I found myself growing angry, and only in part with Ryan. "Thanks," I said to Josh and I drove off to the park. I drove all the way around the park twice without seeing any sign of Ryan, but just as I was about to drive off I caught sight of a bike tire poking out from a thicket of bushes behind the baseball dugouts. I parked and scrambled down the hill toward the thicket to investigate. That looked like Ryan's bike, so I called out. "Hey buddy, are you in there?" There was a faint rustling in the leaves, and my friend emerged sheepishly from his hiding place, his eyes locked on his sandals. As soon as I saw him safe, the last fear drained from me and I was purely mad. I contained myself, determined to help him as much as I could. I nodded toward the nearest dugout, walked in and sat on the bench. Ryan followed wordlessly and joined me. "Your dad didn't call?" It was as much a statement as a question. Hot tears flowed unbidden down Ryan's face. He absentmindedly clenched his hands into fists, and then relaxed them again. "He didn't - he never - he always called on my birthday before." "Maybe he was going to call tonight?" Ryan shook his head. "He works nights, and he knew I wasn't gonna be there." I hated the man I had never met - hated him with all the passion with which I loved his son. I wanted to call him the bastard pig that he was, but I knew that wouldn't help Ryan. I sighed and put my arm around the boy's shoulders. There wasn't really anything to say, so I just told him, "I'm sorry, buddy. I'm really and truly sorry." The boy turned to me and buried his head in my chest, sobbing violently. I held him and stroked his hair, waiting for the tears to subside. At last he calmed down, and I continued to pet him quietly. At last he sat up and rubbed his hand across his face. He didn't seem to be embarrassed that he had cried in front of me - it was amazing how much he had grown to trust me. "So," I said at last, "how long were you planning to hide in the bushes? Were you planning to let me know where you were?" Ryan's face suddenly flushed. He obviously had taken off in a fit of rage without any thought for me or for his mom. He had no plan or idea how long he meant to hide under that bush. "Well, I, you know - were you worried?" It was such a stupid question. I felt my anger mounting again. I stood up to mask it and walked over to Ryan's bike. "Let's get you home," I said, and I walked the bike up to my car. The bike went in the trunk, Ryan in the passenger seat, and we headed back for my house. Along the way, I began to explain to Ryan in carefully picked terms just how outrageous his behavior had been. I told him how frightened I had been. I told him that I almost called his mom. I told him what would have happened if she had had to leave work, and I told him that I couldn't even imagine what would have happened if the police had been called. With every sentence his head sunk lower as the enormity of what he had done sunk in. It was a brutal tactic I had perfected as a teacher, but it was necessary, as it so often was. To punish a boy, or even to yell at him, when he doesn't really see what the big deal is, doesn't accomplish much. I knew how to speak calmly, ask the right questions, and point out the obvious until he saw how foolish he had been and he truly wanted to be forgiven. It was tough putting Ryan through that right after his emotional catharsis over his dad, but he had behaved both selfishly and dangerously, and he needed to understand that. He was hanging his head when we went into my house. He looked around the kitchen, saw the now-ruined dinner I had prepared, and it hit him like another blow. He understood - both what I had been trying to do for him and how he had ruined it for us both. Then he looked into the dining room and saw the wrapped birthday present on the table. He began to shed tears again. "Kent, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to - I didn't think!" I wanted to say something, but I couldn't. I felt bad for him, and, at the same time, I was still pretty mad. I told him to go out to the living room while I cleaned up the mess and tried to salvage something for dinner. In a few minutes I went out to him, still trying to work through what would come next. Ryan was sitting on the couch with a vacant look on his face, but he was staring at the paddle on the coffee table. He started when I walked in, and he spoke first. "Kent, I'm really, really sorry. It was stupid, running off, and I messed up everything. I - I think I should be punished. Do you - should you maybe paddle me? Like, for real?" That was the million dollar question. It was as complicated as anything he had asked me all summer. Of course I wanted to paddle him - I had been trying to get him to bend over for me ever since that rainy day when he found my paddle. His last words, "for real," were the heart of the matter. I wanted to paddle him, and now that he was offering, I realized that I wanted to paddle him for real. I wanted to swat him hard and elicit real tears. It was complicated, though. On the one hand, I was mad at him, and rightly so. He had been foolish, and he deserved to be punished. I actually believed in the effectiveness of corporal punishment, too. That seems unrealistic given my obsession, but it's true. I had started out in the school just spanking kids because it was hot, but I'd seen it work, and I was a true believer. Ryan probably needed a good thrashing, but with the sexual interplay - especially the spanking play - between us, could it really work? There was another, deeper, reason for my confusion. Ryan had been a willing participant in our games, and always the initiator, too. I had been careful not to give him more than he enjoyed. I was totally turned on by his enjoyment of the spankings. But there was another, deeper fantasy within me. I hated to admit it, but I got turned on at the thought of really punishing his ass and having him begging for mercy. Sexual spanking is a control game, and a part of me wanted to grab that control and take it beyond his desire. When Ryan had asked me if I enjoyed paddling kids in the school, I hadn't told him everything. I hadn't told him that I enjoyed it not just because their little butts were so cute, but also because I liked the power I had when I stood over a trembling little boy. I enjoyed swatting them hard - I liked to see them writhe and hear them cry. Tear-stained faces turned me on. I loathed myself for this; it was a part of me that I wanted to hide from, but it was very real. Later I might feel guilty, but when I was paddling a little boy, his pain turned me on. I could rationalize it - tell myself that it really had done him good - but there was a monster within me. I loved boys, but I also lusted after them, and part of that lust was hard to control. Now Ryan had invited the monster to come out. He was offering me what I wanted. When I had paddled him before, my cock had jumped when he yelped in unexpected pain. I had been genuinely worried that I had gone too far, but at the same time I had genuinely enjoyed that sound. Now I wondered what it would be like to not hold back - to slap the paddle against his cute little butt hard enough to lift him off the ground and to listen to him cry. I wouldn't have suggested it if he hadn't first. I still loved Ryan, and I didn't want to drive him away. But he had made me an offer that was too good. I heard my voice as though it came from outside me: "Yeah, buddy, I think that's what we need to do." Ryan reached out for the paddle and picked it up, then stood and held it out for me. I took it wordlessly, and he looked up into my eyes. His chin was quivering a bit. He put his hand to the snap on his denim jeans, an unspoken question lingering. "Keep them up," I told him. "I don't want to bruise you too much." That obviously scared him, but he was grateful as well. I directed him to bend over the coffee table as before, and this time he straightened his knees and pushed his bottom up high without being told. The denim fabric stretched tightly across his pretty boy-mounds. I tapped the paddle against him, measuring my distance as before, and then I spoke. "What you did was very, very wrong, buddy. At school it would be a class one offense. The most we ever give is three swats, but most of our kids get it a second time at home, so I'm going to give you the full six." I was mildly irritated to find myself aroused. This was supposed to be serious business. I swiveled my hips as I drew back the paddle, then I turned into my swat. There is a wonderful feeling to a paddle in the hand connecting with a boy's bottom. It is as satisfying as any orgasm. I exulted as the paddle cracked, not like a .22 this time so much as a .357. Ryan's breath hissed in, but he managed not to cry out. His legs were trembling as he held his position. I was shaking too. I rubbed the paddle hard across his bottom, then pulled it back and brought it crashing down again. The boy lurched forward and audibly choked back a cry, trying to be brave. I looked down to see my cock throbbing visibly beneath my jeans: I was paddling this kid's ass so hard! I quickly drew back and swatted again, a little harder and definitely sooner than Ryan expected. He couldn't hold it back; a desperate cry was wrenched from his lips. For a moment he screamed in agony, but he quieted himself. His knees had buckled, but he slowly brought his bottom up again, ready for the next swat. I was sick to my stomach. That cry had broken the sexual spell, and I looked in horror at the boy I loved and whom I was punishing so harshly. He had deserved it, yes, and it probably was good for him, but I had been such a beast as to enjoy it! I tossed the paddle aside and pulled up on Ryan's shoulder. "That's enough, buddy," I said as I pulled him to me. For the second time that evening he buried his head in me and cried for all he was worth. He cried over his lost relationship with his dad and over the now expunged guilt of how foolishly he had treated his mother and me. I cried too - both because I had nearly lost control and because I realized how much I loved this boy. When we both calmed down, we settled in for a quiet evening. We ate a cold dinner, and Ryan opened his gift - a pair of in-line skates. He was happy, but not ecstatic. That would come the next day, when his nerves had grown less sensitive.. Then we cuddled on the couch and watched a baseball game. There was no sex that night, but Ryan didn't sleep on the couch. He came to my room, craving my company, and I took him to my bed. He curled up in front of me, molding his back to my front, and we lay in a warm embrace, cooled by the breezes through the window, until morning.