Interstate Voyeur


by Bunzafire <Bunzafire@yahoo.com>

The response to my first pair of stories has been so overwhelmingly positive that I've decided to give it another try. As always, your comments are welcome and will serve to keep the stories coming! bunzafire@yahoo. com.

The sudden swerve of the minivan, followed by the jerky correction back into the lane, first grabbed my attention. An admitted nice car fan, I often noticed cars while driving, especially the luxury sedans and exotics that I would never be able to own. But minivans were not at the top of the short list of cars that would grab my attention. As I darted glances into the rearview, I could see that the driver, a young woman, was engaged in animated conversation with the passenger, a young man. The man however, was only partially attentive. His focus seemed to be some unseen passenger(s) in the rear of the vehicle. With visions of truant youths needful of correction in my mind, I slowed to allow the van to pass.

As the vehicle passed on my right, I stole glances into the interior. In the middle section of bucket seats sat a boy of about sixteen - tall and thin with a thick head of sandy blonde hair. Face turned to the outside, I could see the seeds of rebellion marked clearly in the lines of anger on his face. As he seemed to be the only passenger, it logically followed that he was on the receiving end of the man's ire.

The man in the front seat, who I assume was his father, continued to talk in earnest, but the lad was no longer paying attention. Another glance and I saw the father shaking a finger at the boy, clearly growing more and more angry. When no response was elicited, I watched with growing disbelief as the man unbuckled his safety belt and began to try to climb into the rear of the minivan.

He certainly had the boy's attention now, and the former angry sulk had given way to the beginnings of panic. The boy was pleading with his father, now, and I began to watch more carefully. Unbelievably, it seemed that I was going to witness a father's discipline right here on the road. I flicked a glance into the rearview again and was pleased to see nothing as far as I could see. I slowed just a bit to improve my view, darting glances from the minivan to the road ahead of me.

The father had climbed back to the middle seat and was sitting beside the boy. His hand were out of sight and seemed to be doing something to the boy - I realized to my delight that he was unbuckling the boy. The boy tried to stand, but he was too tall to stand comfortably and was leaning over. The father maneuvered him to his right side, then leaned back into the seat and folded the boy over his knees.

The boy was a bit panicked, as evidenced by his struggles and his nervous expression. But he was still a boy and no match for his father. As I watched in delight, the spanking began, the father lifting his large hand high overhead and bringing it down on the denim-covered backside of his recalcitrant son. As the blow fell, the boy's eyes widened and his mouth made a big O. His struggles intensified for a second, only to be stopped by a practiced rearrangement by the older man.

The second blow fell, then the third. As the fourth fell, the boy's eyes closed and his face grimaced in pain. The father was raising his hand as high as the limited space permitted and bringing it down hard and fast on the boy's rear. As each swat fell, the boy would close his eyes and grimace as before. But after only six or seven swats, I could see the tears forming in the corners.

The tenth blow wrenched a cry of pain from the boy - I couldn't hear anything, of course, but I could see his mouth stretch into the characteristic rictus of pain. The van swerved again as the woman looked into the back seat to offer some advice - or perhaps to plead with the man. She snapped her attention back to the road and the van straightened abruptly.

The maneuverings had interrupted the father, but as the wandering minivan steadied, he resumed his work. Two more blows and the boy's legs began to jerk violently upward with each blow. He was crying copiously now, his mouth stretched into a continuous plea. As his backside received each blow, his legs jerked into the air, the fell back, raising his head high enough for me to see his face. Tears streamed down his red face. Five more blows, then it was all over.

The boy stood, crossed back to his seat, and sat down gingerly as his father awkwardly climbed back into the passenger seat. The boy turned his face to the window and continued to cry quietly.

I slowed my car a bit and allowed the van to pull a short distance in front of me, then pulled into the lane behind the minivan. I drove for several miles, watching the boy in the aftermath of the spanking. It was only a mile or two before he started squirming, the aftereffects of the spanking making it hard for him to sit still. Occasionally I'd see his father turn around and talk to him, sometimes pointing and shaking his finger as only fathers can do.

The woman glanced in her mirror, saw my car, and pulled over into the fast lane. I stayed where I was, maintaining my distance and watching as things unfolded. We drove for about twenty miles that way, and I had almost decided to blow past them, when I noticed the conversation between the boy and father apparently heating up again. The boy's body mannerisms suggested that he was getting more and more vocal in his reactions, and a final particularly vicious reponse seemed to be more than the father could take.

As I watched in disbelief, he climbed into the back seat again, this time standing (as much as was possible) while he unbuckled and removed his belt. He gestured angrily toward the boy who was still for a moment while he unbuckled himself. The van was swerving some, but not dangerously, as the woman turned and pleaded with the man. He ignored her and gestured angrily again.

The boy stood, then turned to face the rear of the van. Again watching in delight, I realized that the man was forcing the boy to bend over the seat. The boy put his hands out in front and used to back seat to balance himself. His father started immediately.

The first blow was laughable; he tried to draw the belt back but was foiled when it struck the back of his wife's chair. Frustrated, he backed up as far as he could, putting his back against the right side of the van. He tried again to swing the belt, but was frustrated again by the lack of space.

A flash of green snatched my attention, and I saw that we were approaching a roadside rest area. Realizing what this would mean to the father, I punched my accelerator and screamed past the minivan. Two miles later I had pulled significantly ahead of the van as I exited the highway. Keeping the car moving as fast as I dared, I literally screamed into the nearest parking spot, grabbed my little device, jumped out, and sprinted for the building. The rest area was deserted. As I opened the door I looked back toward the entry road and saw a pair of headlights starting toward me. Inside, I found the mens' room and darted inside, making my way quickly to the backmost stall. I slipped inside, careful not to close or lock the door, then sat on the toilet. I started taking long deep breaths in an effort to control my breathing.

After what seemed like an eternity, I heard the muffled sound of the door opening and banging shut and footsteps growing louder. I punched the button on my device. I could make out the sounds of conversation but couldn't make out the words. As the voices drew nearer, the conversation became more distinct. The door opened and the light snapped on.

"Hello? Is there anyone in here?" the man's voice challenged. I held my breath and tried to stop my heart. After a few seconds, he continued, "Good. Now get you butt in there."

"Dad, you don't have to do this." The young, high voice was pleading, all semblance of arrogance and anger gone, replaced by that familiar fear. "I'll listen to you, and I'll..."

"You shut up, young man. You've had this coming for a long time. I thought the earlier spanking would have solved your problem, but it only seems to have made things worse."

"Dad! You can't do this! Not here, not like this! At least wait until we get to the room and..."

"No, son. Unfortunately for you this place is deserted. It'll do nicely for what I have in mind. And believe me, I know why you want me to wait until we get to the motel. Your mom would be there and she'd whine and cry and keep me from giving you what you deserve."

"But Dad..." WHOP! "Oww! Wait...let me..." WHOP! "Oww! No, Dad!" WHOP! "Aiii!"

I could tell by the whistling sound and the impact that he was laying into those Wrangler's with the belt. A belt makes a distinctively muffled sound when contacting heavy fabric, especially denim. I remembered that this boy had already taken a pretty good beating today; no wonder he was crying out so soon.

"Stand still, _d_a_m_n_it." WHOP! "Oh..please Dad..." WHOP! "Ah.." WHOP! "Oww! Jeez, Dad..."

"Boy, you're gonna stand still and take what you deserve, or we'll be here all night." There was a brief pause. "Now get over to that back wall." The footsteps came all the way across the bathroom toward the back stall where I was hiding. The stall door was open, but I shrank as far back as possible to keep from being seen.

They were standing just outside the stall door, and I struggled to keep absolutely still and quiet.

"Put your hands on the wall up high, wider than your shoulders - like I'm gonna give you a body search." I could hear the boy turning his body to the wall. "Now spread your legs a little wider." Again a slight movement. "Don't bring your hands down off that wall or you'll get it even worse..."

WHOP! Silence. WHOP! Silence. WHOP! Silence. WHOP! This time I thought I heard a slight gasp, but just barely. WHOP! Silence. WHOP! This time there was definitely a small gasp, but it was very quiet.

Reasoning that they were both preoccupied, I shifted slightly and moved my head a bit toward the stall door.

WHOP! Small gasp. WHOP! Small whimper. WHOP! Small gasp. As my head got closer to the door, I saw the boy's backside sticking out, his father on the other side bringing the belt forward. WHOP! This one drew a small "Ah" from the boy. The man was pulling the belt back for another swing when he abruptly stopped. He paused for a couple of seconds as if considering his options.

"This isn't working. You're getting too old for these little boy spankings." There was another moment of silence as he pondered. "Alright, take your shirt off and pull down your pants."

I'm not sure who was more surprised by this command - me or the boy. There was a moment of stunned silence.

"What?"

"You heard me, son. Take your shirt off and pull your pants down."

"What...are you kidding?"

"No, son, I'm very serious. Do it, or I'll do it for you."

There was a soft rustling sound as the boy drew the sweatshirt over his head. As he dropped it on the floor, I moved very slightly to give myself a better view. From my new vantage I could clearly see the man and the boy. He was naked from the waist up and had turned away from the wall and from me to confront his father.

"Dad! Please don't do this...not like this...please!"

"Mark, I won't ask you again."

With a heavy sigh, the boy unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down slowly, stopping at his knees. His white briefs wrapped snugly around his well developed buttocks.

"Oh, no. Down to your ankles." With a bit of a shudder, the boy bent over and pushed his jeans to his ankles. Without being told, he put his hands back up on the wall in their previous position.

"No, son. Pull down your underwear."

The boy whirled to face his father. "No! Dad! You can't do this...p-p-p-please...not like this...!"

The man stepped forward until his face was just inches from his son's.

"Mark, pull your underwear down to your ankles and grab that wall! If you don't do it right now, I'll do it myself and you'll get twice the beating!"

The boy burst into tears as the inevitability of the situation dawned on him. He turned slowly to the wall, slid his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and slowly lowered them to his ankles. From the stall I could see everything - he was six feet from where I sat!

Nearly naked now with his pants and underwear puddled around his feet, the boy turned back to face the wall and put his hands over his head again. His shoulders shook as he sobbed quietly.

WHAP! "Ohhh God!" The sound of the belt on the naked boy butt was distincly different - loud, clear, and brisk, no longer muffled but surprisingly sharp in the small room. After the contact the boy threw his hips forward toward the wall. His hands came down and wrapped around his flaming buttocks.

"Get your hands back up on that wall, boy."

"No...Dad...please..." The boy was having trouble speaking - he was crying and trying to talk all at once, which, of course, is impossible.

"Mark, get your hands back up on that wall. Please don't make me bend you over my knee and hold you down."

The boy put his hands back up. I saw the man draw the belt way back and bring it forward. WHAP! "Aiiii!" the boy screamed. WHAP! "Ohhh!" WHAP! And with that, the boy was crying and yelling continuously. WHAP! "Oh...a-huh..a-huh" WHAP! "Aii!" Each blow now elicited a cry to be followed by a resumption of the general crying. WHAP! "Ohhh! p-p-please!" WHAP! "Aiii!"

The boy's naked backside was five feet from me, roughly at the same height as my head. Since he was leaning against the wall, he wasn't really bent at the waist. This meant that he could clench his buttocks in anticipation of the blows, and he was clenching for all he was worth. As the strap made contact, his tight buttocks would quiver as they absorbed the punishment. WHAP! "Ohhh! No!...uh-uh.." WHAP! "Aiii...uh-uh..Dad!" WHAP! "No!"

The boy's breathing was ragged now. WHAP! "Oh!" Even in the dim light of the bathroom I could see the bright red color rising on the boy's skin. At the edges of the target area there were definite borders of red where the belt had left an impression, but mostly the individual marks merged into a general covering of bright scarlet color.

WHAP! "Ow!" WHAP! "Ah..."

The man had stopped and was relacing his belt into his pants. The boy was crying more quietly, his whole body shuddering as he drew ragged breaths. The man walked out of my view and I heard running water. The boy continued to cry, his body still shaking, though less forcefully.

After a few minutes the man came walking back over. He put his hands under his son's chest and helped him to stand. Still standing behind his son, he reached down and pulled up the boy's underwear and pants.

"Ok, son, it's over. I'll wait outside while you compose yourself, then we'll go back to the car. You need to understand that I'm serious when I ask you to do things. You're not a little boy anymore, and it's time for you to take some responsibility for your own behavior." He paused for emphasis. "Unless you straighten yourself out, you're in for this and worse."

He headed for the door. "Come on out when you're ready."

The boy stood with his hands still on the wall while the sounds of this father's footsteps faded away, his jeans and underwear pulled mostly up, partially covering his blazing backside. After the door closed, he lowered his arms and took a step toward the sink.

As he made the first step, he cried out "Oh!" as the fabric of the jeans rubbed against his fiery buttocks. He stopped, then grabbed his jeans and underwear with both hands before lowering them just below his buttocks. He walked carefully out of sight, moving slowly.

I stood up very quietly, staying hunched over so that my head was below the level of the stall. Slowly, quietly and carefully I raised my head until I could see over the top toward the bank of sinks. The boy was standing with his back toward the sinks, craning his head around to see the damage on his boy buns, rubbing one hand gingerly over his flaming buttocks.

I marvelled at how his hand nearly completely covered each buttock, remembering how it had once been so for me. The boy reached over and pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, then ran water from the sink over them. He then carefully applied the cold water to his backside, grunting in pain only once or twice.

After holding the water for a few minutes, he again turned to survey the damage. "_f_u_c_k_ing bastard!" I heard him say, but quietly, just to make sure he wasn't overheard from outside. He shook his head. "Miserable lousy _f_u_c_k_ing bastard!"

He pulled up his pants with only a slight gasp, then walked gingerly to the door.

I sat still for a while, giving them plenty of time to get away before emerging from my cocoon. I turned off my pocket recorder, silently hoping that I'd managed to capture the whole affair.

Back in my car, I pulled back out onto the highway. Such was my patience that it took me fifteen miles to catch them. The man was asleep in the front passenger seat, the woman still driving. Poor Mark was trying to sit in the middle seat, but he was squirming back and forth. I settled in a comfortably discrete distance behind them and we drove for close to an hour. I'd just about decided to find a place to sleep when I was jolted into alertness by the turn signal from the minivan ahead of me.


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