Willful Disobedience

He simply stands shaking his head incredulously, a strange smile on his face, as he stares at me.

"Direct orders!" He laughs again, disbelievingly. "You willfully disobeyed my direct orders."

I glance nervously from his face and back down to my feet. My ears are a burning pink, I can feel my brain going soft and mushy, and I cannot think.

"Well boy?!" So angry he is giddy with it. I get the distinct impression that I have _f_u_c_k_ed up beyond his wildest experience, that in all his years as Daddy to countless boys like me and unlike me, few have ever done what I did.

His arms are folded menacingly across his chest, his foot is tapping one impeccable Italian leather shoe against the floor. There is a slight pink flush in his cheeks, but it's his eyes, oh god! His eyes! Lunch feels like it is floating up my digestive tract...

"I'm waiting!," he bellows. He doesn't often bellow. Even when meting out punishment he is usually cheerfully calm. "What do you have to say for yourself??"

"Uh...." I feel my brains dripping out my ears, trickling down my neck. "I'm sorry...?" I fling a hasty "sir" onto the end of that apology as his hand snaps out of its folded position, poised to strike.

"Thats all?"

A quiz, it feels like a quiz that I haven't studied for, that I wasn't expecting, in a subject that I was never taught...

"Uh..." So incredibly stupid feeling that my face flushes pink and I feel tears welling up in my eyes. "I don't know what to say sir..."

"How about...

'I'm very sorry I disobeyed you sir'
'Please forgive me sir'
'It will never happen again sir'
'I behaved stupidly and irresponsibly sir'
'I deserve to be punished sir'

I babble out a few of his phrases like a badly trained parrot, and feel the cold sweat in my armpits, the oily sweaty mess my face has become.

"You do agree that you deserve to be punished don't you?"

I gulp, nod my head stupidly. I can't speak when I'm frightened, and oh lord, am I ever frightened. His hand snakes out and I find myself blinking and rubbing my left cheek.

"Yes sir I deserve to be punished," I quickly manage to verbalize, as I fear the back of his hand poised to catch the other cheek on it's return.

"Good boy." He stares at me, scrutinizing my face as I glance nervously around the room, afraid to look him in the eye. He's really really angry, I know that, but I just don't really understand why. He said to be home by midnight... so I came in at 2:30... I still did everything I said I would, and made it to work on time. I still don't really get it, but for some inexplicable reason, I really do want to please this man.

"Now how do you think you should be punished?" he asks me, and I'm frantic.

"Oh god please don't make me sir, I don't know what to say, I can't think right, please don't make me."

"I'm waiting." He taps his foot again, and I just panic.

"Please sir, I can't do it, I don't know what to say, if I underbid you'll just get mad, and if I overbid I'll screw myself."

"There's little chance of you overbidding," he whispers ominously.

I stand mutely staring at the floor, wringing my hands and working my mouth. He is not stupid, or needlessly cruel, he can tell that I'm incapable of fulfilling this task.

"I would suggest six of my best then, boy."

He stares at me and I feel a cold wave of terror ripple through my entire being. I blink, work my mouth, the words jerk out of me in spastic little spurts.

"Oh god... I l-l-l..... loathe canes," I stutter, shaking all over.

"Why of course you do, boy!" He smiles cheerfully again. "They are nature's cruelest implement."

"Well then..." Daddy straightens his back, adjusts his clothing. "Have we done this before?" he asks me.

"N-n-n-n-n-n-no sssssir" I stammer. My groin is a mushy pit of fear, and I really am afraid I might swoon. Some of Daddy's other boys have told me about his canings. Six is serious. Six of the best, six of the worst. He's really mad, and I still struggle to understand why. This being a good boy is still new to me, hell I'm not even very good at being a mediocre boy, this whole "Dad/boy" thing is still sometimes mystifying.

"I see. Well, fetch me the cane, over there in the corner." He waves his hand in the general direction of his desk, but I know where it is, I've been eyeballing it nervously since I first set eyes on it. I stumble clumsily over to where he's waving, gingerly pick the loathed object up and return to hand it to him. He smiles, gives it a few practice strokes as I wince reflexively, cringing and hunching my shoulders. He smiles even more broadly.

"Ah, at least you respect my cane, if not my orders..."

He moves his shoulders, loosening up I can only assume. I'm terrified I won't survive "six of his best", or at least, survive with my pride still intact.

"Well then." He has these strange little segue phrases that I've come to dread the meaning of. "Drop your pants and bend over my desk. Underwear too, of course."

I move clumsily to the desk, it feels like I'm floating on a big wad of fear. My hands are shaking so badly I can hardly work the buttons on my fly. I slowly shove my jeans and jockeys down around my knees. Baring my ass to him is no longer such a difficult task, he's had his hand and belt after me often enough. I bend over to lay my torso flat on his pristine oak desk; I don't know what to do with my arms, end up wrapping them around the top of my head.

He's behind me, his large hot hand stroking the smooth soft skin of my butt. He's muttering to himself again, "a direct order!" He still can't believe that I would disobey him and I'm amazed at his amazement.

He backs away, and I feel that wicked wicked cane stroking the crease of my butt, the spot where ass turns into thigh. I'm already breathing raggedly as I feel the limber rattan length being drawn away, I gasp in a lungful of air as I hear that horrid vicious whistling noise and a line of fire erupts in my ass, burning even more hotly a few seconds after impact, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, struggle not to cry out.

"Count for me boy, tell me how many that was."

He wants to know if I'm ready for the next one; if I wait too long I'm sure it'll be worse, so I struggle to gasp out "one, sir."

"Good boy," he praises me. I manage to unclench my buttocks, and I hear that horrible whistling noise a second time, and an even brighter line of fire blossoms along the plumpest part of my ass. A hiss escapes my lungs, the pain worsens, it doesn't subside, I simply try and accommodate it. When I can relax my facial muscles again, struggling to relax my nether cheeks, I whisper out the count.

"two, sir."

I hear it, oh god I hear it, that horrible hiss of rattan flying through the air at incredible speed cutting into my ass I struggle to hold my position as I twist and lurch on the table and an audible gasp of pain uncomfortably close to a scream bursts from my lungs. I don't know how long it is till my head clears and I remember I need to tell him that was three. Three!! Oh god, only halfway through... I don't think I'll survive.

"three sir!"

The fourth one lands with an audible whomp, digging into my buttocks between the first and second stripes. It feels as if my whole ass has been flayed raw, the flesh painfully peeled off, I can no longer distinguish the individual lines of pain, and I scream audibly and then clamp my mouth shut, mortified. Two more! Only two more! I struggle for the composure to tell him that that was four; I want to hurry the last two; Oh god please let me get it over with.

"Four sir!"

The fifth one makes me stagger, I scream long and loud, forgetting my pride as I lurch forward on his desk, tears of pure agony erupting from my eyes. I lay gasping for what seems like an eternity, the fire in my ass is simply unbearable. One more. Last one. I just need to say it, to get it over with...

"five," I whisper, deathly afraid of this last one. "sir" I hastily append.

It seems to take forever. He strokes the cane along my ass and I squirm, twist, whimper. I cannot tell where the strokes have landed anymore, the pain is all one fiery throbbing furnace. The noise. Oh god, the whistle. I will never forget the whistling sound from this caning, not as long as I live. I barely recollect it landing, I'm only aware that I'm screaming and tears have burst from my eyes and I can't stop crying, and squirming. I struggle to breathe normally, as I feel his warm hand pressing into my back, stroking up underneath my shirt.

"six sir," I manage to quiver out, at last having regained control of myself.

He is squatting behind me, removing my shoes, I feel my jeans and underwear being pulled over my ankles.

"Such a good boy," he is murmuring as he strokes the unblemished back of my legs, standing up to draw his finger across the fiery red racing stripes he's drawn on my ass. "A very good little boy after all."

He gently lifts me up off his desk under the armpits so that I am standing, turns me around to face him, and draws my t-shirt off over my head as if I were a small child. I stand before him, naked, hurting, crying. He puts a hand under my chin, runs a hand over my flat, smooth chest, gently tracing my ribs with his thick forefinger he draws me to him and I hug him tightly, soaking up his warmth as he rubs my stubbly scalp affectionately. He lifts me easily, carrying me gently, careful not to disturb the stripes on my ass, my hands wrapped around his neck, his arm warm and strong against my shoulder blades, his other arm under my knees, I rest my head against his shoulder. Gently, ever so gently, he lowers me to the floor next to the bed, and I climb in, lying down face-first, turning my head sideways to look up at him, my fists tucked under my breastbone as I breathe slowly. My ass is still smarting fiercely and I feel another round of tears approaching.

"Such a good boy," he murmurs again, squatting down beside the bed he strokes my back and head and leans in to kiss the tears that are streaming down my cheeks as I shake and sob silently.

"It's all right boy, let it out," he encourages me to vocalize my pain. "No shame in crying, boy, no shame at all. Big guys sometimes cry too."

But I just can't let go, not yet. I reach out, cling to him, and cry and shake harder still, choking down the noise as best I can, as he rocks me slowly into a dead, exhausted, dreamless sleep.