In many ways it was an ordinary butt, not too large, not too small. It was a healthy pink in color, with a deep cleft, and small dimples at the top. I could observe tiny goose bumps on the surface, and even smaller almost colorless blonde hairs. Both cheeeks were relaxed now, although there was a soft mewing noise coming from my left, where its owner's head hung low. I gently rested my hand over both cheeks, and was met with the anticipated clenching together. Clenching is something that happens as naturally as breathing. Clenching in anticipation of what is to happen, clenching in anticipation of the unknown, in anticipation of what must surely be an unpleasant experience. I slowly rub the right (outside) cheek, along the dimple formed by the clenching. After a moment, the butt relaxes, and goes from a firm, flexed muscle, to a soft, little boy bottom. I lift my hand to move it to the other side, and the clenching starts all over again. I rest the weight of my hand on the left (inside) cheek, and slowly feel the relaxation take place. Without lifting, I slowly rub up and down, getting a feel of the butt, from top to the bottom line where the thighs join the bottom. I shift his weight a bit, and can now see the tiny wrinkles which define the break from butt to thigh.
The first stroke is well thought out and planned. Without warning, I raise my hand high, and bring it down on the right cheek, palm flat, fingers spread. The follow through causes the cheek to flatten, and lift, which separates the cheeks, and causes a brief glimpse of a tiny brown hole. I continue to push down, not releasing the weight. An intake of breath allows me to know that he has felt the stroke. Slowly, I pull my hand away, and watch as a perfect hand print emerges on the right cheek. First it is white, then rapidly it turns to a pink color which stands out against the unmarked rest of the butt. As my hand is removed, the butt clenches together, then separates, and reclenches. A quiet sound is heard from my left, sort of a combination of a stiffled cry, and a snort. It is in sharp contrast to the loud cracking noise that my stroke made. I rub the spot in soft, widening motions.
My second stroke mirrors the first, except it is on the left cheek, the one nearest to me. I lift my thigh just a tad, which moves the butt out a bit. Raising my hand on high gives the butt time to clench in its tightest clench. It is so very tight that the cleft appears to be nothing more than a thin line down the middle of what appears to be one solid butt, rather than two cheeks. The now red mark from my first stroke stands out in stark contrast to the yet unmarked left cheek. I strike as hard as I can, again pushing the flesh down. This time, due to the clenching, my fingertips actually strike the opposite cheek also. I do not like to strike a clenched butt. I know from experience that the recepient of the stroke actually suffers more pain than a similar stroke on a relaxed butt. Also, it causes a sting on my own hand. I also know from experience that a butt usually unclenches after it receives a stroke. Sometimes this is a series of clenching/unclenching motions. If you are quick enough, you can time your next stroke to hit during one of these cycles when the cheeks are unclenched.
With sudden force, I strike the left cheek again, just as hard, in the very same spot. This time, the cheek is unclenched, and my fingertips actually dive into the cleft, near the hole. I force my weight into the stroke, and hold my hand down. Two things now happen at once. First, a screech from my left, and a quick motion from my right, as his legs both snap up at the same time, causing one of his shoes to fly off. I can see the tips of his ears redden now, and feel a continual sobbing motion. His left cheek is very red, much more so than his right. I gently rub along the finger prints of the now soft, red butt. I can feel the warmth on his cheeks, and know that he too is feeling warmth, or even fire from the last stroke. A spanking, by definition, is pain which builds upon pain. The longer it lasts, the more built up pain occurs.
I aim my next stroke right at the junction of thigh and butt, right in the middle. It is a lighter stroke, by intention, and is quickly followed by a similar stroke on the right cheek and then the left cheek, then back to the middle, then the left and finally the right again, all along the same lines between his butt and thighs. The strength of the strokes were less, but the sudden ferocity of them was like receiving six bee stings, one after the other. That area quickly turns from pink to red, with no specific handprint, like the other strokes. A repeated "ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!" is heard, and once again, the cheeks clench and unclench. The clenching and unclenching is now joined by an up and down motion, as if to push away from the pain.
My next stroke is just below the very first, on the right cheek. I have planned it to hit during an unclenched time, and actually at a time that the butt was rising up. I give it my all, and as before, follow through by pushing down after the initial impact. The right cheek responds by moving apart from its brother, widening the cleft to such an extent that all of the hidden secrets are revealed, the dimpled boyhole, perineum, and even the balls, tight in their bag show themselves as he lifts his head and trumpets a loud cry from my left, and snaps his legs back up on my right, until he is almost flat across my lap. His jeans fall off of his left leg and hang in a tangled mess over his right shoe. Rasping sobs begin, each followed by a sharp intake of breath as the anticipated crying begins. The sharp pain ebbs, and he again drapes himself across my lap. I rub his cheeks and can feel the increased heat, and observe the reddness, which seems to grow and glow with each passing moment.
Rapid fire, medium hard strokes start at the top of the left cheek, to the bottom, and are mirrored on the right side. Over and over, like rifle shots, the strokes land, and, as their frequency increases, so increases the volume of his crying. Up and down each cheek I travel, over and over, not counting the strokes, just repeating, and repeating. His legs kick up again, and now his jeans and left shoe fly off. His legs are held together now only by his small white jockey shorts, which are moving back and forth with each kick, and just as certainly, are finally flung off of first one foot, and then another untill his legs, now unfettered, take on a rythem in time with the strokes. Up and down they move, and suddenly they are joined by a similar up and down motion of the butt. There can be no modesty when legs are thrown up and apart in a wild dance, opening up to continual view that which was first hidden by furiously clenched cheeks.
Without stopping, I move my right leg up, which causes the butt to bend and separate even more. I now move my strokes down, fingers crushing right into the area of his hole, and along the white areas of his cheeks which were so previously guarded by his clenching. Up and down the butt moves, and up and down my hand flies, to the point where it seems that his bucking motion is such as to offer up his hidden area in sacrifice, in the hopes of ending his suffering. I now move down, and concentrate my strokes over his perineum, and around his thighs. His screams echo off of the walls, and are louder than the sounds of the strokes.
I am finished. It takes him a while to determine this, but slowly, he relaxes. His legs fall, and he drapes over my lap like a rag doll. His butt is a beautiful sight, entirely red, from top to mid thigh. He holds his cheeks open, as if in an attempt to relieve the pain, and I can see the reddness which extends down both sides of the crack, over his hole, and over his perineum, right up to his bag. His breathing slows, and I slowly lift him up. He stands facing me, with red eyes, and cheeks full of tears, he is torn between wiping the snot from his nose, and rubbing the pain from his butt. His butt wins out. His hairless penis bobs up and down with his sobs. It is but a pink nut atop his little wrinkled scrotum, whose balls also move in time to his sobs. I walk to his bed and pull out his pillow, which I lay in the center. I see fear in his eyes as I turn and pick him up and walk toward the bed. I lay him on top of the pillow, butt in the air, and cross to the dresser to get a bottle of lotion. As I turn, I hear him sobbing and pleading "no more". Poor little fellow thinks it is not over. I walk to the bed. His eyes are screwed shut, and his butt cheeks are tightly clenched together. I pour some lotion into my hands, and gently rub his so very red butt. In seconds, his eyes open, and he relaxes. His butt unclenches, and the soothing lotion eases some of his burning. I gently rub, from top to bottom, and back. I then lift and turn him onto his back, with the pillow under the small of his back. Raising his legs into the same position that I used to diaper him in, I am able to rub the lotion over his burning thighs, and along his crack, and over his hole. I rub lotion on his perineum area, and some splashes onto his scrotum, which I rub off. He now has an erection, which I know is normal for a little boy, and I pay no attention to his little stiff penis, as I rub over, and slightly into his little hole.
I finish, and tell him he can get down. As I turn, he is standing there, a small tear in his eye, as he says those words I had hoped to hear. "I'm sorry.!"