Brother's Bad Report-Card
By Stephen Scott
Note: This story is based on a very hot series of pics I found on the `net.
Copyright, 2006 by Stephen Scott. All rights reserved. Permission is granted to Nifty Archives, to archive and display this work. All other uses are expressly forbidden unless explicit arrangement has been made with the author. This work may not be reproduced, posted, stored electronically, or archived, except for personal, non-public use, without the express written permission of the author.
Encounters--The Bellhop and the Movie Star and Straight Boy Cody for Cash
Adult Youth--Fourth of July Fireworks
Young Friends--After the Fireworks
Authoritarian--Number Twelve, His Private Stockade, Hustling a Hustler and All I Want for Christmas
Beginnings--The Boy in the Alley
If you enjoy this story or any of my other stories, please drop me a line at Joe_Gillis_2000@yahoo.com (And a no-prize if you recognize that name!)
Brother's Bad Report-Card
By Stephen Scott
I scanned the piece of card-stock, a frown expanding along my brow.
My son Brett, stood by nervously in the bedroom he shared with his fraternal twin brother, waiting for my reaction to his first-semester report card. I sat in the chair by Brett's computer, getting angrier by the moment.
Even though I wasn't looking at him, I knew the sort of sickly, panicked look I'd see when I turned my attention to him.
He was right to be worried. This was the worst report card Brett had ever brought home. Sure, there was an A and a B scattered through the columns. But the rest were all Cs and Ds.
I was furious, and Brett knew what that meant.
Feeling my temper rise, I looked up from the paper and stared angrily into the face of my 18-year old son.
"This is unacceptable, Brett."
"Yes, sir," the boy mumbled, casting his eyes down so that the thick black lashes obscured them. It was a cute trick, and normally I'd have considered it sexy as hell.
But not this evening.
"Look at me, Brett!" I barked. He immediately made eye contact with me. "What did we discuss concerning your grades this year? Hmm?"
Brett shuffled uneasily, but kept his eyes locked with mine.
"That I need to get them up and keep them up."
"And why is that?"
"So I can get into a good school next year."
"That's right. And what did I say was going to happen if you brought home anything lower than a B?"
My hand was drumming impatiently against my thigh. And Brett interpreted that sign correctly. He gulped and shifted his feet.
"Well? I'm waiting for an answer."
"You said--you said I'd lose my Internet privileges."
"Was that all I said?" The drumming was becoming more pronounced as my anger built.
"No, sir," Brett said miserably. "You said I'd lose my TV privileges too."
"I'd be grounded for two months."
Now I was well and truly pissed.
"I think you're missing the main point, Brett. What. Did. I. Say. I'd. Do?"
Brett broke eye contact and his gaze held on the carpet.
"Beat my ass ..."
"I didn't catch that. Speak up."
"Beat my ass `til I couldn't sit down!" he cried. "Sir," he added, mumbling again.
"All right, then. So, your AOL account is suspended. The TV is going to the attic. You don't go anywhere but school and home. But right now, you go get the towel. When you come back, you will drop your pants and put your sorry ass over my knee. And if you dawdle, I'll really tear you up."
Brett rushed off to my bathroom and returned with the medium-sized hand-towel, which he handed to me. I placed it over my left knee and waited, glaring at him pointedly.
I use the towel this way because, in spite of the severity of the spanking they get, my boys usually get pretty aroused; I wanted no spillage of teen-spunk on my dress pants.
Brett's zipper was down before I could readjust my position in the chair. He slid his faded denims to his ankles and came closer.
I parted my knees, rolled up my sleeves, and waited.
The humiliated teenager laid his body across my lap, crotch on the towel. He knew enough to push his behind up in a suitable position, and I gave him a few points for that.
"Brett, you're going to get 25 swats for every letter grade below a B. The first set will be administered by hand. The second, you'll be spanked with my hairbrush. Do you understand?"
Brett's voice broke as he murmured his assent.
I mentally calculated the blows my son was about to receive. Let's see: English was an A, so he was safe there. And History was a B. Science and Economics were Cs, so that was 50 swats, total. And Algebra II was a D. That made an additional 50. So, 100 whacks. I smiled grimly. Brett would have to lay his ass on pillows tonight when he went to bed.
I looked down at my son's beautiful butt. Round and firm, it hovered in the air, waiting for the blows it was about to receive. I hated like hell to mar its silky perfection this way, but an agreement was an agreement. Brett was going to a good school next fall or I was going to take a layer or two of skin off his behind every semester.
Reaching my left hand under the elastic band of his shorts, I tugged them down, revealing his gorgeous teenaged buns. They were lightly hairy, which was good: the curly black wisps would be too fine to absorb the blows.
I wanted this to hurt.
Lowering his underpants to just below his buttocks, I held him down with my right hand, pressing it palm-down onto his spine. He tensed, waiting in dread for the spanking to begin.
The boy's genitals were trapped tightly in the pouch of his shorts. Whatever the pain of the spanking, I knew that this kind of physical contact--his ass bared to me, his crotch pressed against my thigh--would arouse my son. Keeping his privates bunched-up this way would heighten the sensations and keep his stiff member in check during the spanking.
Some fathers, when they spank their kids, probably just give them a few sharp whacks in anger, connecting here and there in their fury. Not me. A spanking was a rare occurrence in our household, so when it happened it was intended to make an impression. To me, there's no point in slapping your kid's butt if it's an everyday thing; it ceases to have meaning--the power to persuade. I want my sons to remember their lessons, so I didn't spank them often. But when I did, the punishment had the sense of ritual. There was pleasure in it, but the pain was what I expected them to remember.
There was, first, the period of stomach-turning anticipation--the waiting. I liked to extend this as long as possible, to give my boys something to worry about. Next, the spoken instructions. Lying over my knee, pants down, hearing the full extent of what was about to happen, heightened their feelings of dread and anxiety.
(Of course, the teasing out of this process also gave me a nice chance to examine my boy's behinds at close quarters, which definitely had its own attractions. I was usually getting a respectable erection before I laid a hand on them.)
In any case, Brett was going to get 100 whacks, and each one was going to land, and land hard. And he damn well knew it.
I began with a stiff blow to the base of his right cheek. He squirmed, and I immediately smacked his left.
Now, I believe in varying the blows so the boys can't anticipate any sort of pattern. So the next three were landed square on his right cheek, the four or five after that on the left. I also rained down some well-placed smacks between the cheeks, not touching the anus, which can really hurt, and cause bruising, but along the ass-crack. Then, to really make an impression, I returned to the lower portion of the butt, just above the legs, where it's the most tender. My boys had firm, athletic asses, so a few sharp whacks beneath them would get their attention, and hold it.
I never made my sons count the slaps out loud. Some fathers do this I know, and if the kid loses count, will lay on five or ten additional smacks each time it happens. But that always seemed cruel to me. They were already getting their asses whipped, were embarrassed and in pain--why make it even harder on them? I kept count myself, mentally. No matter how frenzied or random my movements might seem to the boy over my knee, the spanking was carefully modulated by the guy doing the job.
"That was half, Brett," I said, pausing briefly. "Twenty-five."
He groaned, and I welcomed the moment to let my hand rest a bit (on his fresh-spanked butt.) But soon I was back to business, whacking his ass with renewed energy.
I was at thirty-five blows when Brett started squirming on my lap, whimpering and moving his behind around. In response, I held onto his hair with my free hand, yanking his head back roughly as I laid on his bare-butt spanking. He gasped, but didn't protest.
He knew better.
After a moment, when I was sure he'd gotten the message, I let go of his hair and reached my hand around his middle.
Brett's backside was really glowing at this point. The pale cheeks were rosy, and I could feel heat beginning to suffuse his ass when my hand made contact. It was a pretty picture, and my cock responded accordingly. I knew Brett could feel the rise pressing against his belly. I could also sense that, despite his cries and whimpers, he was sporting a good-sized erection himself, under the pouch of blue striped cotton that housed his penis and rubbed against my thigh.
Soon enough (although I'm sure it felt like an eternity to the boy) I had reached the set amount. I stopped and allowed Brett to get off my lap. He stood near me, his cock and balls still encased in his briefs, rubbing his bottom. I could see his hard-on poking against the material, but the tears in his eyes were real enough nonetheless.
After a certain number of swats, the rump starts to go numb, and the blows have little effect. I've learned over time that resting after about fifty spanks is about right to keep this from happening. Giving the boy a brief respite between sessions buys you some time so his butt can begin to lose whatever numbness has already set in, and your own hand can recover.
The rest also keeps the specter of the remaining punishment keenly in his mind.
He knows it ain't over.
While this was going on I removed my vest and loosened my tie. It was hot work, spanking a teenaged boy, and I was beginning to perspire.
After a couple of minutes I ordered Brett to go into my bedroom and retrieve The Brush.
The boys always thought of it like that, in capital letters. It resided in my top bureau drawer, wrapped in a handkerchief. It was used for nothing other than spankings, and so had attained a kind of mythic power in their minds.
Brett shuffled off down the hall, his pants still around his knees and his shorts down in back. He knew better than to alter his appearance before the spanking was done.
While he was gone I took the opportunity to readjust my stiff member inside my pants.
He was back shortly, and without a word, handed The Brush to me and climbed back up over my lap. His erection had softened again, and he once more raised his bottom up, waiting.
His butt was nicely red now, rest period or no. It glowed as I raised my right hand again, armed this time with the trusty brush. We had 50 swats to get through, another rest, and 50 more.
I lifted my right leg, raising Brett's bare butt higher. The soft, reddened mounds waited, quivering in anxious anticipation.
I was so absorbed in my ministrations to Brett's behind that I didn't really notice when he began calling out. At first, I just thought he was vocalizing his distress. Then I realized he really wanted my attention.
"Dad! Dad!" he cried. Then: "Dadddd-eeeee!!!"
I stopped smacking his ass and saw him pointing. Looking over I realized that his brother Jeff was standing just inside the closet door.
Jeff, Brett's fraternal twin, lighter haired where his brother was dark, had been surreptitiously watching the whole thing.
A straight-A student, he had already shown me his perfect report card. And so, knowing his butt was safe from the tanning Brett's was enduring, he had secreted himself in the clothes closet to watch Brett's humiliation.
Not only was he watching, clearly getting a kick out of his younger brother's punishment but--
--he had his shirt unbuttoned, his chest bared, his jeans down to his ankles, his underpants tucked below his balls, his rigid cock in his hand--
--and had been beating off!
I was speechless. But before I could regain my composure, the boy was out of the darkened closet and moving into the room, his lips beating a mile a minute.
"I wasn't watching, Dad! I wasn't! Honest! I--"
I cut him off immediately.
"You think this is funny?" I roared.
Thoroughly self-conscious now, Jeff stood straight, his hands over his crotch. He looked so ridiculous like that, casting innocent eyes at me with his pants down around his ankles, I almost laughed.
Instead, I let him have it.
"You think your brother coming home with Cs and Ds is something to laugh about? You think my spanking his ass is something to stroke your boner over? Just because you got a perfect score, you think you can make fun of him like that? Get off on his punishment? Answer me!"
Jeff looked down in humiliation, unable to speak in his own defense. What could he say? "Dad, I can't help it if I get a hard-on when I see you slapping Brett's bare butt"? (Although that was, really, the only response he could have made.) Instead, he manfully accepted the obvious, pulled up his trousers, and kept his trap shut.
Patting Brett's sore bottom gently, I leaned down and quietly said, "Get up, son."
He stood with some difficulty, and waited silently. He looked grim, but I could see the beginnings of a satisfied smile tugging at the sides of his mouth. It was as obvious at the bulging of his crotch and the drop of pre-cum that stained the fabric of his shorts.
I couldn't blame him.
He knew what was coming.
I was now sweating freely, from fury as much as physical exertion. I unbuttoned my shirt and, my eyes glued to Jeff's, pointed to my lap.
"You may deserve praise for your own report-card, but not for this. Pants down, young man, and assume the position."
Jeff's jeans went back around his ankles, and he scooted over to the chair--not very quickly, I noticed with grim humor. He lay down on my lap, his groin on the towel, his cute young butt still encased in his blue underpants.
I held him firmly and raised my left hand.
"Your brother still had 65 swats to go. You will take them instead."
He turned his head back toward me at that. He was obviously pretty certain he was going to get off lightly.
He most definitely was not.
Jeff began to protest, loudly.
"Not `buts,' young man." I smiled at the pun. "Except the one over my knee. You will take the remainder of Brett's spanking. In fact, I'm going to up the number. Instead of 65, I think this shocking behavior of yours merits 100. 50 over your underpants ..." I paused dramatically. "And 50 more on the bare."
"N--no, Dad! No!"
"Shut up! I'll teach you to jack off when your brother's getting a tanning!" Turning my gaze to Jeff's twin, I smiled invitingly. "Brett, however, can enjoy your spanking any way he chooses!"
Brett grinned, relieved. His hand went to his crotch and began rubbing it.
Satisfied at this poetic justice, I turned my attention back to the matter at hand.
I was really going to enjoy this. Enjoy it? Shit--I was half-hard already.
I began, whacking Jeff's bottom with relish.
Unlike his brother, Jeff was a screamer. He never took a spanking silently, or with grace. He moaned, cried out, protested, and wriggled his ass around, vainly attempting to escape the blows pouring onto his ass.
And the more he squirmed, the harder I spanked.
I glanced up occasionally to watch Brett as he stroked his erection. His eyes gleamed brightly as he watched his brother being spanked, and he tugged at his balls, moaning softly.
I could hardly blame him; the only object I knew of as pretty as Brett's bottom was that of his brother.
The first 50 swats were over more quickly than I'd have preferred, and unlike with Brett, I didn't allow his brother the luxury of standing up to rub his fire-streaked bottom during the rest period. I did, however, remove my shirt. I was perspiring heavily, and it was difficult enough to concentrate on beating Jeff's butt with my hardened cock shoved painfully to one side.
During the pause, I carefully lowered Jeff's under shorts, revealing a delightfully rounded, reddened backside. As with his brother, I made sure that Jeff's penis was snug inside the pouch of his shorts and pressed tightly against the towel on my thigh. Despite Jeff's uncontrolled behavior at getting spanked, I could feel a very respectable hard-on there.
Brett, meanwhile, was stroking his own hard cock more intensely, a crooked smile of sexual excitement on his face. I wasn't sure how much longer he might last, but I was determined to give him a good show until he came.
He moved closer, his cock aimed at his brother's jerking head.
Inevitably at some point in any spanking, Jeff's hands fly back to cover his butt and I have to forcefully remove them, holding his arms down beneath his chest. Today was no different. Nor was his usual, tearful begging.
"No, Dad! Please! Please! Oh, it hurts! It hurts!"
"It's supposed to hurt!" I raged, whacking him soundly on both cheeks. "Now, stop squirming, damn it!"
Part of Jeff's wiggling was designed to exert the maximum amount of friction between his penis and my thigh. His hard-on poked into my leg, and I knew it wouldn't be long before it exploded in a hot rush of boy-cum. Thank God for the towel!
But not before I reached the prescribed number of swats. I knew Jeff was counting, and he'd time his orgasm appropriately.
At 45, he'd start cumming. That would give him 5 more swats to add to his enjoyment as the hot white sap spewed from his dick.
I heard the abrupt gasp of a boy catching his breath and looked over to see Brett clamp his eyes tight as his fist became a blur over his cock.
On cue, the boy on my lap started hunching. He threw his butt up and seemed to push it against the blows he was receiving, at the same time crying out in ecstasy and soaking the towel with fresh boy-juice.
That did it. Brett gasped one last time and came, his ejaculate flying through the air, splashing my hand and coating his brother's hair.
As if on cue, my own load was propelled out the head of my dick, soaking my shorts as I arched my back and growled out my pleasure.
When it was over, I patted Jeff's scorched young butt lovingly, and he rose. His shorts were splattered with cum. I placed my left arm around him and he hugged me tight. I held out my right arm to Brett and he joined us. As they hugged me close, I placed a hand on each of their hot, fresh-spanked butts, squeezing their rounded contours gently.
We held each other tightly, our breathing raspy and permeated with the sound of sexual fulfillment. Their bottoms were definitely warm to the touch. I could almost feel the heat coming off them without touching the brilliant red flesh.
When we could breathe normally again, I kissed them both and told them to go take a shower while I changed clothes and prepared our dinner.
I sat watching as they left, arm in arm, scooting away to their bathroom, their pants and underwear still down around their ankles. Their red bottoms swayed erotically as they left.
I smiled to myself with pride and pleasure.
A Dad loves his sons...