Often it is enough to punish your offspring. They do wrong, they know the consequences, you summon them before you, lecture them, bid them undress or yourself undress them, lecture them some more, and spank with hand or instrument. Punishment done, life goes on.
But these routines atrophy. At first experience, the boy is embarrassed, hurt - and vows to behave. But it is human to become accustomed, to adapt. The boy begins to find your punishment routine.
Ok, so you escalate; you keep naked longer; you lecture more ferociously, you progress from hand to strap to cane or paddle. He is horrified. He hates the pain. His behaviour improves. You have won.
But these routines wither upon the vine. He is 14 now. He knows your ways. He dislikes his punishments, but likes his transgressions more. It is time for an escalation, but you are not a brute nor are you an abuser. You will not submit him to the disgusting and deviant because you care for him; you will not beat him until he bleeds, because you love him.
But your love for him and knowledge that he needs to be reined in leads you to seek a subtlety. An escalation not toward abuse, not in the direction of agony, but toward the exquisite.
The exquisite in embarrassment. You wish to push the boundaries of his mortification. Very well. You resort to a chat room, as Alan did, and you encounter me.
Now let me tell you about chat rooms - if you do not already know. They are stacked full of bull_s_h_i_t_, the ultimate virtual masturbation. But just occasionally diamonds shine deep within the ordure.
Such silly language! You know what I mean. Sometimes you meet the genuine article. Even more rarely, the meeting ceases to be virtual.
And Alan, when I met him, was very far from virtual. The single father of an only boy, Frank, whom he loved and spanked in equal measure. Alan wanted my help. He liked the idea of the witness. He lived in my country. He invited me round one Friday evening.
And in his living room, I encountered Frank. Let me tell you about Frank.
Frank that Friday was still wearing his school uniform. It was the conventional kind of thing. But I expect you want to know, so I will tell you: light grey pullover, white shirt, school tie, grey long trousers, grey socks, black leather shoes. I expect your son or nephew wears much the same if you live where I do.
But you want to know more. You would like a description of his appearance. OK. Frank was on the tall side of average for his age and had brown curly hair and blue eyes. He was slender but nowhere thin. There was a diffidence to his expression and a mischief to his eyes. Get the idea? I liked him.
So there we were in the living room, Alan and me in armchairs, Frank shifting from one foot to the other on the hearth rug before us.
"Well Frank," Alan said. "I warned you I'd do something you weren't expecting and here's my friend Keith. He's going to watch you get punished and maybe even help out."
Frank looked shell-shocked and remained wordless.
"Go draw the curtains," Alan commanded.
Frank went about his work and I mused, as the lights went on, that there was something powerfully seductive about a curtained room in daylight. You just knew that the unimaginable might actualise.
Frank returned to his hearth rug. I think he was contriving to look casual, but actually he looked shy, embarrassed and very unkewl, all in one.
"Shoes off!" Alan ordered.
Why is it I like watching a boy taking off his shoes? I don't know. Not a foot fetish. He has to bend over. It's ungainly and awkward. And you just know that when his besocked feet stand upon the soft rug, he's suffering a phenomenon witheringly erotic. Nakedness beckons, yet he is clothed.
Which fits, because a bulge burgeonned in his crotch. Not a full and majestic eruption, but a definite little bulgicle. I, on the other hand, was fully eruptive.
"What would you like my son to take off next?" Alan asked.
Power. I looked at Frank and considered. "I think... his pullover.. but, could I take it off?"
"Oh sure," Alan said.
I stood in front of Frank, almost toe to toe, and lifted his pullover. Submissively he raised his arms and let me pull it off.
There's a difference, isn't there, between a boy in a pullover and a boy in a shirt and tie? Both are alluring. In the pullover, you can imagine him without trousers or underpants, just the pullover shielding his nakedness but his hard dick pressing it forward and outward. In a shirt and tie, it's less imagination and more here-and-now-ness. He's somehow more present, more male, more boy, more hot and sweaty. You have come closer to the source.
I sat.
"Frank, I'm sure Keith would like to take a first review of your bottom. How about bending forward in front of him?"
Frank obviously knew that to disobey his father in a session of punishment was seriously unwise. He bent over in front of me, his trousers taut, his briefs profiled, his small round bottom in stark relief.
"Have a feel if you like," Alan said.
Not an opportunity to turn down. I sat forward and tentatively stroked the youngster's buttocks. He made no complaint. I ran two fingers along his cleft, almost to the beginning of his scrotum. He made no movement.
"What are we going to take off next?" Alan asked.
"His trousers," I replied.
"Right," Alan said. "Stand in front of me, Frank."
Frank stood before his father, who reached forward and unbuckled his belt.
Then he looked downward and said, "I see you are going hard again Frank."
Frank began to blush.
Alan undid the top button and unzipped. "Perhaps you will be more comfortable with these down," he said, pulling the boy's school trousers to his ankles. "Take them off please."
Frank bent and pulled his trousers off his feet, chucking them back onto the settee. His white shirt covered all that was private - and took away the vision of his hardness, because it was loose.
But I still found Frank exciting. His knees and legs bare down to his socks, there was the sense of imminent revelation. And I could imagine how he felt, the wind whistling up his briefs. He knew that the endgame approached. He felt it in his anus and his bowels.
"Take off your tie." Alan ordered.
Frank did, looking ludicrous in his shirt with its top button still fastened.
"Unbutton your shirt, little boy."
He did.
"Take it off."
He took it off and put it on his trousers. His chest and back were bare. So were his arms. So were his legs. He simply wore his white briefs and his grey short socks. And his dick was so, so, hard, pressing angularly forward in his briefs. The joys of being a witness!
How must he have been feeling? I could imagine. Shy, vulnerable, fearful, excited, strange. Two men, eyes boring down on him. Two men with power.
"Take off your socks."
He did.
He was sweating.
"Take off your underpants."
He did.
He was naked.
His _c_o_c_k_ was rock.
There was a little clear bubble of fluid at its head.
Just the smallest amount of pubic hair.
Dangly red ball bag.
Cute.
Shy.
Uncertain.
Alan brought a dining chair, armless, to the hearth rug and sat on it.
"Over!" he ordered.
Frank went over his knees.
Alan started to spank.
And spank.
And spank.
Until Frank was kicking and crying and redbummed.
Frank stopped.
"Take him to his room and finish the job," he said to me.
A solitary tear still running down his cheek, Frank clambered to his feet, gathered his clothes - as by practice long remembered - and led me to his room.
It was a boy's room. Pictures of motorcycles and footballers and music stars plastered on the walls. And I was there with a red-bottomed naked boy, clutching his clothes and looking apprehensive.
I sat on the bed. "Hello," I said.
He looked down at me, still tearful. "Hello," he said, looking confused.
"How about dumping that pile of dead clothes?"
"Oh, right!"
He put his clothes on a chair.
"And coming and sitting by my side...
He sat and winced..
"...or lying on your tummy on the bed if that's easier..."
He smiled shyly and did just that.
"My!" I said, looking in detail at his upturned posterior, "that looks hot!"
"It's frying!" he said.
"Shall I put a cold flannel on it?"
"Would you?" He sounded grateful.
I went to the sink and wet his flannel. I took it back and draped it on his bottom, squeezing the drips into his cleft.
"Nice!" he murmured. "Again?"
I complied.
And I complied.
And I complied.
And I put the flannel back on the sink.
And I sat back down on the edge of his bed and put my hand on his cooling bottom.
"Better now?"
"Yes."
I let my hand wander lightly over his cheeks, upper thighs and lower back. "You know I'm meant to finish off the spanking?"
"I know. I don't mind so much now. I know you're kind."
"And your dad's kind?"
"My dad's OK."
"You don't think of complaining about him?"
"Don't be silly! He's my dad. I love him. I deserve what I get. I hate him when he does it. But I know he loves me."
"I understand."
"A lot of people wouldn't."
"The world has changed, Frank."
"Spanking's better than grounding, you know. A lot of kids would choose it if they were asked."
"That's not what the adult world thinks."
"The adult world sucks!"
"The adult world thinks you're being abused."
"Bollocks am I!? My dad never does anything like that."
"He undresses you."
"You sick or something? What's wrong with undressing in front of your dad?!"
"And a stranger?"
"I deserved it. Anyway, truth is...."
"It's a bit of a turn-on?"
"How did you guess that?"
"I looked at your dick."
He laughed. "I think you'd better finish me off, or we'll both get it from dad."
The thought of getting it from Alan was strangely alluring and unsettling, but I resisted the temptation and told Frank to lie over a couple of white pillows.
Then I took off my belt and laid into his butt.
Which he didn't like.
And he was soon yelling for mercy and kicking his legs up and down and gyrating his crimson pelvis with manic ferocity.
Well, I did eventually stop.
And have him stand with his arse over the sink and pour cold water over it until he felt better.
I don't often get this kind of opportunity.
It was quite wonderful. And strangely friendly.
...