B.B. Moves In


by Thomas Hobbes <Sebboh@hotmail.com>

"Let me get this straight. When I get home from the office tonight you want me to take you across my knee and wallop your backside?"

"Yes," B. B. replied in a whisper, lowering his eyes.

"That sounded a bit uncertain, B. B.: let's hear it clearly, please," Tom teased, smiling. "I'm just your co-star in this play, not the director, and I need some clear direction here. Come on, you've known me for six months and been living here now a week!"

B. B.'s cheeks blushed hot at the teasing, his eyes continued to trace the pattern in the carpet, and his voice refused to work. The taut, embarrassing silence continued for a minute; then two.

"All right, I will also be the director," Tom said. "Repeat after me, B. B.," Tom continued. "'Please, Tom, when you get home tonight, give me a good hard spanking.'"

"Please, Tom, when you get home tonight, give me a spanking," B. B. repeated in a rather weak, uncertain voice.

"No, no, no," Tom replied, still enjoying this opening scene of a play in which he had promised his recently moved in house mate he would bring B. B.'s fantasy to reality. "You forgot a few words, B. B., 'good, hard' before the spanking. Try it again--and show some enthusiasm, boy!"

"Please Tom, when you come home tonight, give me a good, hard spanking," B. B. nearly shouted, exasperation replacing his timidity. He wished now he had never agreed to tell Tom his deepest erotic fantasy. But the shoe would be on the on the other foot next week when Tom had better honor his side of the agreement to tell his deepest desires. Revenge would be sweet, indeed.

"Thank you, B. B.!" Tom answered. "Thank you. Well done! And, believe me, you will get your wish." Then he quietly added "Tell me just a little bit more, B. B.. In your fantasies do you get it with a paddle? or a hair brush? or just with the hand?"

"Different fantasies, different things happen," B. B. replied in a voice so quiet Tom strained to hear.

"But what really stokes up the mental image to white heat?" Tom persisted. "Inquiring minds want to know."

"Remembering the few times when I was in high school and I got a tanning with a razor strop nearly makes me cum just thinking about it. Believe it or not, I think I even came while bent across the bench, wriggling and squealing."

"And those lickings were on the bare?"

"No. But a pair of Jockey briefs was no help, that's for sure. My mother always made me take my pants down for the paddle when I was little, but my father took over the task when I got too old for going over the knee and at least let me have some modicum of decency."

"So would you like me to play 'Dad' and put you across a bench for a session with a leather strap?"

"Just play yourself, Tom, and do what you want: a little suspense would help, a little uncertainty and anticipation. This isn't supposed to be psychotherapy for amateurs. Sometimes I wonder if your brain is even smaller than your . . .." He looked down to Tom's crotch.

"Touchy, touchy!" Tom replied. "You might want to watch your smart mouth, young man, unless you want a good long wash with Ivory soap to clean it out. And if I do have to wash your mouth out, we will see just how well my little friend fits in your nice, big mouth."

"Just remember the deal, Tom. Next time you tell me your darkest fantasy in living, lurid, colorful detail. And no double dealing, either."

"I'll play fair, honest," Tom lied smoothly. "But you have not given me much of the living, lurid, colorful detail of your fantasy. So why not give me a bit more detail on how this should go and reassure me that I will not regret it."

"You need not worry about hurting me, Tom. This is not supposed to be a massage with soothing music, you know. Believe me, my father was no wimp and he did not hold back when he gave me a strapping. Just start slow and easy and work from there."

"First, I don't happen to own a razor strop, B. B., so we will have to come up with something. That can be your task: if its anticipation you want, I think you should contribute a bit. I want you to go out this afternoon and visit barbershops until you can con one of them out of an old razor strop."

"Sure, Tom. I'll just walk into a barbershop and ask if I can walk off with one. Easy. No problem," B. B. answered, the sarcasm oozing. "If he says 'No, you're nuts, dude,' I'll just grab it and run."

"This is your second--and last--warning about that mouth of yours, B. B.," Tom threatened. "The next time we will make a trip to the bathroom and you will have it washed out but good." They exchanged glares, briefly, but B. B. quickly retreated behind a coy smile. Tom's right hand reached out and grabbed B. B.'s erection and squeezed him through his jeans till it hurt.

"Why not just use your belt?" B. B. asked, with a suggestive wriggle. "Please?!" He was not looking forward to spending the afternoon out on the streets trying to do the impossible and get hold of a used razor strop.

"You heard clearly what your task is before we have our little get together tonight and I suggest you get to it," Tom replied, his right hand retreating from B. B.'s withering _c_o_c_k_. "And you are well advised to succeed in this one item scavenger hunt. If you cannot find one alone, we will go out together and that, I promise, could be quite embarrassing for you. I'll take you out to Farm and Fleet and try a couple of riding crops out right there in the store before I have you purchase one." That said, Tom rose from the couch, grabbed his sport coat, and headed for the door. "Good luck shopping," he said, disappearing through the door to the garage.

B. B. sat motionless on the couch for nearly fifteen minutes considering what had really just happened and then deciding what he would do next. After fifteen years the fantasy which he had shared with no one was no longer his secret and, now that it was out, he was not so sure about bringing his fantasy to reality. But it was, he knew, ultimately his choice. If he chose to stop now he was confident of his ability to talk Tom out of following through. But then he would never know whether the reality was as good as--or could it be even better than-- fantasy. He got up, put on a coat, and headed out to find a barbershop.

After discretely peering through the windows of half a dozen yuppie uni_s_e_x_ salons with cutesy names–Shear Delight, A Cut Above, Parting Ways--B. B. began to wonder if there was a single, old style men's barbershop left in town. He resolutely headed his Camry across town to the older, industrialized side hoping to spot one of the familiar red, white, and blue barber poles he remembered passing as a kid. Soon he found one and pulled over to park on a narrow brick street just down from Dominic Fratello's Barber Shop. His pulse quickened as he nervously looked through the plate glass to see one old man clad in the telltale white smock sitting in a barber's chair reading the paper.

"Good afternoon," he said, entering the shop. He could feel his face blush red once again and thought he could hear his own heart beat as he began the rehearsed speech which would, he hoped, end with success. "How are you, today?" B. B. asked, feeling a bit silly.

"Just fine," the barber replied, not moving from his perch. "How are you?"

"Fine, just fine," B. B. said, hesitating.

"Chair's all yours,"the barber--said with a trace of Italian accent. He stood aside and waved as if a matador facing a bull.

"Oh, uh, fine," B. B. stuttered. "I mean that's not what I came for."

He looked at B. B. somewhat strangely, wondering at this invasion of his quiet domain.

"I was just hoping," B. B. continued, glancing over his shoulder to see if a customer was coming, "that you might help me. I am working on an exhibit on nineteenth-century family life and I have nearly everything I need, but I would really like to find a well worn old razor strop to complete the bathroom part of the exhibit. We already have the mug, soap, and brush, but no sharpening strop." There, it was out on the table! "Would you happen to have an old razor strop you no longer use which I could purchase reasonably for my exhibit?" he lied.

"Probably," the barber replied, still eyeing B. B. as some odd curiosity invading his shop. "Lemme go see what I can find in the basement. You watch the shop, OK?"

"Sure, fine, I will," B. B. pledged.

Several minutes passed before a customer came into the shop. He hung his coat, walked right past B. B., and settled into the chair.

"Mr. Fratello will be back in a minute," B. B. offered. The customer simply shook his head and picked up the sports page.

"Will this do?" Dominick Fratello asked as he came through the door and held out a commercial grade razor strop stained dark and warped by years of daily use.

"Perfect!" B. B. answered, his heart still thumping. The end of this ordeal was in sight and he was willing to pay any price just to take possession and get out of the shop. "How much do you want for it?"

"This is for a museum, you say?"

"Yes, sir," B. B. again lied.

"Then there's no charge. My contribution to the exhibit," he said, handing his the broad leather strap. "Have a nice day," he said, clearly ending the conversation.

"So, Mikey," the barber chirped, turning to his customer as B. B. left the shop, "you believe that? A museum exhibit? I think his old man send his down to get it!" Dominic Fratello burst into a rolling, boisterous laugh.

B. B. ducked out the door, the laughter chasing his down the block to his car. "Mission accomplished," he thought as he drove back to his home. Scene two, act one of the play he had always hoped to star in was complete but already he began to feel the butterflies for the next act.

Once home, B. B. carefully looked over his purchase, his fingers trembling and his erotic excitement rising as he anticipated Tom's return that evening. It was the classic barbershop strop, two broad strips--one leather and one canvas--about two feet long and bound together with a silver metallic fastener on one end. Drawing it through his hand, B. B. was quickly reminded of his fantasy visits years ago down to the workshop where a strap almost identical to this hung over the end of the workbench. He had always envied his brothers' trips to his father's workshop and often fantasized what it would be like. B. B. went into his bedroom, pulled out the padded bench to his dresser, and laid the strap across the bench. Then he quickly undressed and headed for the shower. He was hard already.

The rest of the afternoon was given to housecleaning, cutting the lawn, doing a little gardening, and more than a little fearful anticipating of what would come in the next scene of this play. But B. B.'s spirit of adventure led to a determination to see this through and he gave no further thought to calling it off. Until, that is, Tom's truck pulled into the driveway around six thirty. Was there still time to escape? Did he want to escape? Would Tom now take control of this play and move it through to conclusion?

Act two, the first scene began when B. B. opened the door and put on a forced, nervous smile. Tom returned B. B.'s smile but not his greeting. After he closed the door and hung his coat in the closet, Tom said simply, "Get it and bring it to me." Not much of a smile now: there was no doubt what would come next. And there would not be any turning back.

Swallowing hard, B. B. went straight to the bedroom, took the razor strop from the bench, returned to the living room, and offered it up for Tom's approval. Their eyes locked briefly as Tom took it from his. "Well, well. I must say you have done yourself proud, B. B.. Good for you!" Tom praised him as B. B. continued to look down at the pattern in the carpet.

"Thank you," B. B. offered, looking again straight into Tom's eyes to see if he could read what was coming next.

"Into the kitchen," Tom ordered. Tom followed B. B. into the room and pulled a chair away from the round oak table. "Drop your pants and bend across the table."

Turning his back to him, B. B. unbuckled his belt, opened his jeans, the peeled them down to his knees to reveal a pair of tight Jockey briefs. Then he bent across the kitchen table, stretching to reach the far edge with his fingers. The absolute moment of truth for which he had always longed had come--and still he was tempted to bolt out the door.

Tom moved behind him and just off to his left side so B. B. could peek out from under his arm and see Tom savoring the deliciously set table before him; the strap hung menacingly down from Tom's right hand.

"I have to say I am truly surprised: I would have bet ten to one that you would find a way to weasel out of this. And now I would guess that you are hoping all your subservient cooperation will spare you the thrashing I promised," Tom lectured. "Disabuse yourself of that notion, B. B.. But for now, you may have a brief reprieve while we have dinner." He took B. B.'s shoulder and pulled him up off the table allowing B. B.'s jeans to drop down to his ankles. "You may put this back where ever you keep it for now."

Tom's enjoyment of this tease was obvious. He watched with a smile as B. B. pulled his jeans back up. Once again B. B. took the strap back into his bedroom and laid it across the dressing table bench. "Maybe he doesn't have the nerve and I can still get out of this," he thought to himself. "And perhaps the sun will rise in the east tomorrow, too," he concluded dismally, somewhat regretting starting something he was not sure he wanted to finish. But he was too much a man to back out now.

"Tell me how you did it," Tom asked as they were working on a large Caesar salad.

So B. B. did, leaving out Mr. Fratello's last line.

"Ten points for creativity, but you did lie to him, didn't you?"

"What was I supposed to do," B. B. countered defiantly, "ask him if I could please borrow his razor strop so my friend could use it to tan my backside?"

"Now, now, boy!! Remember what I told you about controlling your smart mouth. That should be strike three for you, but I will be extra generous and call it strike two and a half. The next snotty word from you will find you sucking on a bar of soap."

B. B. looked meekly at him in silence and thought to himself, "Yes, your royal highness."

For the next half hour they enjoyed the light but elaborate dinner B. B. had prepared with the conversation centered on a merger coming in Tom's company and what that might mean.

Under the usual mundane conversation the anticipation of what both knew was to come created a tension and erotic excitement which built as they ate. Skipping dessert, B. B. began to clear the table.

"Before you wash the dishes, B. B., I think its time we get the final act of this impromptu play started. Scene one of act three begins with you getting the strap and bringing it to me right now." For the second time in as many hours B. B. went to his bedroom, returned with the razor strop, and handed it to Tom.

"Now, boy, you take your jeans off and then you can wash the dishes. After you finish the dishes you are going to take your briefs down for me, bend across the table, and only then will you get the licking I promised you. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," B. B. answered, his eyes meeting Tom's without flinching as he unfastened his jeans, let them drop to the floor, and stepped out of them. Now wearing only his sweatshirt, briefs and socks, B. B. carefully folded his jeans and laid them on the table. He glared defiantly at Tom, walked over to the sink, and began to draw hot water to rinse the dishes. Already he could feel the dampness suffusing his crotch in his briefs. He was hard once again. And so was Tom, he had noticed.

"You do have a good looking legs and an even more enticing ass, B. B. Your father may not have taken your pants down but I would give you even odds you weren't the only one getting a few jollies when you were across that workbench," Tom observed as he sat watching B. B. rinse the dishes before stacking them into the automatic washer. "What cardinal offenses put you across your dad's bench, anyway?"

"It only happened two or three times that I can remember," B. B. lied, remembering his adolescent fantasies. He had never understood why his father had taken both his older brothers down for a strapping and never him."Once I know I got it for having a knock down argument with my mother. She had found a condom in one of my jeans' pockets which a friend had given me and which I had no intention of using. In fact, I don't think I would even have known how to use it. In any case, I lost my composure and ended up cursing and screaming. Unfortunately my father walked in at exactly the worst possible moment."

"And then?" Tom prompted when B. B. had stopped.

"Then, what?" B. B. countered. "I already told what happened when dear old dad went on the warpath."

"But I do like to hear the story. Please tell me again--and don't leave out the neat little titillating details since they are the best part," he teased.

"My father had a wonderful personality for the most part, but he did have this streak of righteous indignation and believed that God would hold him personally responsible for his children's behavior. I was the youngest in the family and his mode of punishment was geared for my older brothers, I guess, so that's what I got. He had a workshop in the basement and would send me down to wait and contemplate my fate for a few minutes while he 'cooled off'--at least, so he said! You know, never punish in anger? What a joke! Then he would come down, take the strap from the hook, and have me bend across the end of the bench for a spanking. Usually I got it across my slacks or jeans, but on occasion he would make me take my pants down before laying into me."

"But he never knew that under this charade you were secretly getting your _c_o_c_k_ off so you really didn't mind. Tell me, B. B., did you ever cream your pants during a whipping?"

"It wasn't that simple. The spanking hurt so much that even what pleasure--if you can call it that--I might have felt did not really compensate. So I never tried to precipitate a spanking. But after he put the strap back on the hook and left, I would then sneak a hand down and grab a rag from the box under the bench."

Tom watched with some lust as B. B. bent over to put the last of the dishes into the washer, B. B.'s briefs pulling tight across his shapely buttocks. Tom put the strap on the table and walked over to B. B.. Standing behind him at the sink, Tom reached round to cup B. B.'s nuts with his hands. Then he ran his hand along B. B.'s erection and felt the damp spot on his briefs.

"Thank you for your commentary. Now its time for the second scene of the last act to begin and there will be some real action in this scene," he whispered in his ear. "The waiting is over, B. B.." When B. B. turned to face him, Tom smiled slightly. Then he pointed to the kitchen table. "Bend, boy! Time for you t take your strapping!"

His eyes down and his heart thumping in his chest, B. B. walked slowly across the kitchen and bent across the table for the second time. Once again, Tom took his place behind and beside B. B.

"Let me tell you what I think, boy," Tom began. "I think you are lying about your father spanking you just like you lied to that barber this afternoon. I am not sure you can even tell where the truth ends and the fantasy--the lie--starts. I think you might even have begun to believe your own stories to satisfy your _s_e_x_ual fantasies. Am I right?"

B. B. closed his eyes, thought for a moment about lying again, and then whispered, "Yes, sir." ["How did the bastard know?!" he thought to himself.]

"I can't hear you, boy!"

"Yes, sir!" B. B. replied loudly.

"Good thing the truth is out, B. B., because I was going to bring the subject up the next time we see your parents and you would have been mortified."

"Yes, sir."

"That's all you can say, 'Yes, sir," Tom mimicked in a high, sarcastic tone of voice.

B. B. said nothing.

"Time to finish the penultimate scene of the play which you have been carrying in your mind for fifteen years," Tom said. He paused melodramatically before delivering the line B. B. had waited all his adult life to hear: "Bare your ass for a whipping, boy!".

B. B. stood, pulled his briefs down to his ankles, and gracefully stepped out of them. He again bent across the table, this time with his bared backside offered up for sacrifice, his _c_o_c_k_ now hard and jutting out under the table, a drip at the tip. To assure his balance B. B. spread his feet; then he pressed his belly to the table, arching his back and raising his silky white buttocks for whatever Tom chose to give his. His balls hung well down between his legs.

The strap rose slowly over Tom's right shoulder and B. B. closed his eyes just as he heard the crack and felt the sting across both cheeks. But it was not nearly as painful as he had anticipated--Tom was taking it easy. A second whack followed after a few seconds and then a third painted a pink stripe below the first two. He was working his way down from top to bottom but the strap was so broad three stripes nearly covered the area.

"From now on," Tom ordered, "you will keep this hanging on a hook in your closet." He punctuated his lecture once more, cracking down with the leather side of the razor strop. "And when I tell you to get me the strap, you will get it, bring it out here to the kitchen, lay it on the counter, take your slacks or jeans off, and bend across the table." Another lick, a good bit harder than the first few, underlined his instructions.

"Yes, sir," B. B. responded, his voice clear but with a quiver of sob in it.

Tom was taking his time, enjoying the sight of B. B.'s now deep scarlet posterior wriggling almost obscenely as his hips rolled side to side and he arched his scalded buttocks upward inviting yet anothis, harder, lick with the strap. The second dozen or so he did lay on much harder but still Tom took his time, watching with fascination as the dark stripes created a quilted crosshatch on his backside and upper thighs. Then he stopped.

"Now about your lying. To ol' man Fratello and to me! Slowly and methodically Tom cracked the thick leather strap across the scalded ass. "You need to learn a little humility, B. B. . I want you to stay right where you are, reach your hand under the table and show me how you jack yourself off when you have your fantasies."

"Tom, please!" B. B. pleaded, "Couldn't we just . . ..?"

"No, we couldn't. Not right now, anyway. I wouldn't want you to be cheated out of the stunning conclusion of this play. And you better get moving or we will go back and rehearse the last scene again. Only this time it will be harder, I can assure you."

Tom waited for B. B. to do as he had been told. Nothing happened after a minute so, once more, he whaled the strap across the tops of B. B.'s still white thighs as hard as he could. The effect was instant and dramatic: B. B. shot bolt upright from the table with a high pitched squeal and grabbed for the wasp like sting spreading from the center of each cheek outward. He turned, glared a look of pure hatred at him, and hissed, drawing the words out slowly with great, quiet understatement: "You bastard!"

"Strike three," Tom replied, his voice as quiet as hiss. "But we will finish here before I wash your mouth out."

They locked in a staring match which finally ended when B. B. reached his right hand down to his hard, dripping _c_o_c_k_ and began to stroke. B. B.'s will, his dignity, and his arrogance apparent, he continued to stare directly into Tom's eyes with a defiant sly smile while he stroked himself rhythmically. After two minutes of this showdown B. B., for the third time, again bent across the kitchen table, this time with the fingers of his right hand working feverishly to pump his _c_o_c_k_. The scarlet had begun to turn a deeper purple and his backside radiated heat as Tom moved behind his to watch his play this scene out. B. B. began to buck and moan with little regard for the display he was providing Tom. His balls swung in rhythym to his stroking and his ass muscles began to clench and relax, opening his crack and hole to Tom's view.

"Please, please, Tom," B. B. pleaded frenetically as he quickened his pace.

Tom made B. B. ask twice more before finally unbuckling his belt and letting his own slacks fall to the floor.

"Tomorrow night, B. B., you and I are going out to Geneva Stables to buy a pair of boots and a riding crop, boy. You hear me?"

"Uuuuuuh . . . ahhhhhhh . . ooooooooooh . !! Yes, sir!!" B. B. replied as he shot his load onto the ceramic tiles below. "For you, sir? Or for me?"


More stories byThomas Hobbes