Daddy hits you different now.
This... DAMN. This one kind of took me by surprise.
This started out as a little fantasy scene I composed on the fly for a spanko correspondent of mine, on Scruff. Like I was sending him one text message at a time, making it up as I went, based on notes he had given me about what turned him on about spanking, and how it had been in his own life. I do this with fantasy stuff from time to time.
I may actually have the opportunity at some point in the future to play the Dad in a scene like this, WITH HIM, to have his beautiful full-grown man's ass across my lap, and spank him until he's crimson while a camera records it for posteriority... but whether that actually happens in real life or never does, this story is a little gem for me. This is a series of text messages, and I left in the line breaks instead of editing it down to paragraphs so you get a feel for what he was reading. He made a couple of replies mid-story; I cut almost all of his pieces out. I left one in, because it was necessary to make sense of some of the rest. I cut out several of my comments that were replies to HIS comments, and did not advance my narrative. Other than that, these are unedited except to fix a couple of typos.
I did NOT intend for this scene to get out of my hands and turn into a personal therapy session, but it DID, and I'm grateful for it, because not only did I let go of some shit, I really did get to visualize myself into my Dad in a way that I never had before, and this is DEEP and WEIRD and it's at the soul and center of this whole father/son BDSM spanking/discipline game. It's so hot and so compelling for so many guys, and it's a thing I've found that I enjoy immensely, and I'm old enough, and I'm Daddy enough, and I'm GOOD at it, dammit.
I have usually done spanking just as a spicy condiment accompanying sex - sometimes as an appetizer, a way to affirm the Dom/sub power dynamic while also getting both of us warmed up and sexually aroused and engaged and making his ass red and tender, and often just some occasional spanks sprinkled all along the fuck - but I'm growing more and more intrigued with scenes where the spanking IS the experience. Many of these are more mental than physical, although the physical portion is INTENSE. The mental portion is... INTENSER. After much dancing around the bush, I am planning on heading next Friday to a Bar Night with a local BDSM club, and with the way things have been going in my life lately, next Sunday I'll probably be role-playing somebody's loving but distant father, and helping him to come to terms with his conflicted feelings about discipline and manhood and authority and growing up by acting like a sweet concerned guy who has plenty of his own issues, but is forced to be the asshole because SOMEBODY has to be the disciplinarian in the damned family, and I'll give him space to experience the erotic energy in that scene by creating a safe and consent-based container within which I will deliver a SURPRISINGLY brutal beating to his ass, and then if all goes well, I'll hold him while he cries. This is FUCKED UP, and it's beautiful, and it can be surprisingly healing to a lot of complicated family-of-origin trauma issues, and people who think that BDSM is all just about hitting people because you like being mean, do not know any real BDSM people.
Get a hotel room somewhere. Doesn't have to be fancy. Has
to be somewhere the noise won't get us banned.
Set up a tripod camera. Make a little studio setup... The foot of the bed wrapped in a plain comforter, a chair by the foot of the bed, a lamp by the chair casts a puddle of light. I'm sitting there reading a book. Probably something spanky.
JESUS, JIM, IT'S NEARLY TWO. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HOME
AT MIDNIGHT. I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH YOU.
You stand there, shifting from foot to foot. You start to talk, to try to make an excuse, but I cut you off.
I'M JUST SICK AND TIRED NOT BEING ABLE TO TRUST YOU. WE TRY TO GIVE YOU SOME LEEWAY, TO LET YOU MAKE CHOICES... AND YOU KEEP SCREWING UP LIKE THIS. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO.
but Dad... I'm sixteen! This isn't fair!! Why can't you just ground me?
BECAUSE YOU AREN'T RESPONSIBLE ENOUGH FOR GROUNDING. WE GROUNDED YOU AFTER THAT THING WITH THE BICYCLE WHERE YOU WERE GONE HALF THE AFTERNOON, AND YET HERE WE ARE. LATE AGAIN, AND I'VE GOT WORK IN THE MORNING, BECAUSE SOMEONE HAS TO PAY THE DAMNED BILLS, JIM.
SO STRIP AND FOLD, YOU KNOW THE DRILL.
You resentfully start to strip out of your clothes, as if putting it off will make it better.
JIM, I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOUR BARE ASS IS NOT ACROSS MY KNEES IN TEN SECONDS, IT'S ANOTHER TWENTY. TEN. NINE.
You scramble to shed your clothes; shoes, socks, pants, shirt, underwear and all ends up in a hasty pile. I look you in the eye.
THAT'S A MESS, JIM. FOUR. THREE.
I pause as you quickly fold the clothes. The pile isn't neat, but it's out of the way.
come on, Dad, you've made your point... I get it, you're serious. I'm sorry, I won't do it again. Please, dad.
You reluctantly lean over my knees. The position is awkward, you're so big, and the camera catches the hair between your legs, the swelling of your thickening thighs. You're growing up so fast, and so strong, and I love you but I worry that I did something wrong because we can't seem to beat this habit of disobedience out of you. It isn't about being late... It's about chaos, about being strong in a dangerous world, and I'm not ready for you to have to face that. But I'm sure as HELL not ready for you to face it if you're still fucking up on the basics because I didn't do something about it.
I hit you. You suffer in teeth-gritted determination, and I know that you are fighting to keep from registering any emotional reaction at all.
I strike harder, spreading the bright red marks so that I can deliver enough pain to hopefully get your damned attention, and then I go back and make another row. Methodical and hard. Thwack, thwack, THWACK!
WHY DO YOU DO THIS, SON? WHY CAN'T YOU RESPECT THESE
RULES? DON'T YOU KNOW I'M TRYING TO HELP YOU?
You almost spit at me... I can see this has been coming for a while.
I can't respect your rules, because you're never here. You're always in Oman, or Turkey, or Mexico, and you bring back presents and stuff, but we need you here. And you're not here. Because you SUCK. And I HATE YOU.
I'm stuck dumb. I don't know what to say. I can't keep hitting you. I can't hug you. I push you off my lap and turn and walk out the door.
.
.
Well, THAT was unexpected. I'm sorry, that kind of got away from me for a second.
So, that got a little bit of my story on top of your story, but I'll edit.
My dad never pushed me off his lap, he usually spanked us over a bed or chair.
I never told him any of that, that just kind of came out now. I'm sitting here crying, being my dad.
Like, literally being able to put my mind into his perspective, trying to raise his weird son that he didn't understand, while his work took him all around the world but left us alone at home.
So, this kind of conversation is often therapy for at least one person... But I usually don't get it twisted quite that much. It's beautiful, though.
I really enjoy talking about the ones I got growing up
You have a very strong focus on your spankings.
They were like storms of sudden terror in my youth.
When dad was sober, they were more like what I wrote, although I was more of a bargainer than a back-talker.
When he was drunk, they're not memories that hold anything but fear and pain. He didn't beat us like hitting wantonly on the body, but he did spank when he was not in his right mind.
And he made me go get his liquor. I fetched and poured the stuff that would make him hit me.
Three ice cubes, two fingers of whiskey. Not those two; the ones like devil horns, index and pinkie held out to measure, because I was fucking TEN or whatever, and my little fingers weren't big enough. He could have told me six ounces, I knew how to cook, I'm NOT STUPID, I just got distracted by things a lot.
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