This story is based on a relationship I had and how I wish it would have gone. If you read this and like it, let me know. Job, if you read this and still want to paddle my butt, it is yours anytime and anyplace you want.
I came home from work and saw Job sitting on the couch, talking on the telphone as usual. He was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, but his feet were bare. I set down the case with my laptop in it and knelt down by the couch, leaning foward so that I could kiss his feet. That was his rule -- every time I came home or he came how, his feet got kissed. He looked at me and frowned, not even pausing in his conversation as he gestured with one hand, like he was swinging a bat.
I was familiar enough with that gesture to know what he meant and I winced as I wondered what I had done wrong this time. But since talking while he was on the phone was against the rules, I knew better than to ask. I kissed his feet again, as he ignored me in favor of continuing his phone conversation, and went to my bed room where I took off my tie and shirt and unbuckled my belt. Job's rule was that when I came back with the paddle he had requested, I had to have my pants and underpants around my ankles. He'd make me take them off before he paddled me, probably, but he liked watching me try to walk with them around my feet. Besides, it made it pretty clear who was in charge and what was about to happen.
Then I looked on his desk and tried to make the same impossible decision I faced everytime Job decided to this to me. I could bring him the smooth paddle or the paddle with holes. In other respects, they were identical. Just mid-sized paddles, rectangular and about a half-inch thick -- good for swinging at a bent over butt or one laying across your lap. But trust my experience when I say the one with the eight holes drilled in it hurt more and longer.
The problem was that if I brought him the paddle with no holes, he'd might use it and then tell me to fetch the other paddle, so I'd get paddled more. But if I brought the one with holes, he would certainly use it and then might casually mention later that he'd have been satisfied with the other paddle. Sadly, I had no idea what the right answer might be or, frankly, if there was a right answer. So, I picked up the paddle with holes with a sigh and shuffled back into the living room, trying not to trip over my boxers as I went.
Job didn't even bother to glace over as I knelt in front of him and kissed his feet again. Since I was now being punished, I wasn't allowed to look up until he gave me permission, so I kept my lips pressed to his foot until he finally used it to give my face a shove upwards. Then he gave me a "gimme" gesture and I handled him the paddle. He took it and then gestured to the corner.
With a sigh that I hoped was inaudible, I kissed his feet again and slowly shuffled over to kneel with my ass in the air and my nose pressed into the spot in the corner where the baseboard formed a "V" shape. I could hear Job continuing to say things like, "Yeah" and "Uhuh" as I waited. I could feel a cool breeze across my ass. Can I just mention that I really hate corner-time?
Finally the doorbell rang and my heart lept in my chest. Who would be coming over? I knew there was a substantial chance that Job would see no reason not to let a vistor in, despite my ass being on display in the living room. I also knew that if Job wanted to paddle me, he would do it in front of a friend of his if he felt like it.
"Oh, hey... Mike's here. I've got to go," he said. Mike was one of his friends from kickboxing class. I'd seen him recently... and then I knew what was going on. I'd seen him at one of our stores having trouble with the self-service color copier. I'd helped him use it, but made several smart-assed comments to him as I did. I guess I just felt like rubbing it in that in this one small area I was superior to this guy who could do so many things - like kickboxing -- that a wimp like me couldn't do. I assumed he'd take it as being all in good fun... and I assumed he didn't know about the nature of my relationship with Job. Evidently I was wrong.
"Hi Mike, come on in," Job said as he opened the door. Job is an athletic guy with the sort of body that comes from working out everyday, playing soccer and taking kickboxing. He had brown hair, blue eyes, and a typical Italian complexion. Mike seemed like such a contrast, he is shorter, has blond hair, and is compact. Still obviously athletic, he struck me as being the kind of guy who worked hard because he was smaller and had something to prove. He was in the Coast Gaurd at the time and I remember his friends saying that he barely met the minimum height requirement. I think I had made some comment about wondering if he was tall enough to see the buttons on the copier.
With my nose in the corner, I could feel the blush spreading over my face as the cool air from outside ran over my ass and the back of my balls. Job closed the door and then I could hear Mike laughing.
"When you told me about this, I though you were _s_h_i_t_tin' me," he said. "But I guess its true. So..." and I heard a hint of discomfort in his voice, "What do you want me to do?"
"Just take a seat on the couch and relax. Enjoy the show -- make any suggestions you have, Mike. And feel free to do whatever you like. Remember, this is about enjoying yourself," Job said. Then, in the sort of casual tone that means real trouble he said, "Hey, get your ass over here, boy."
I knew the drill and I also knew that having an audience didn't change anything. I turned around and crawled over to where Job stood, tapping the paddle against his leg as he watched me with those ice-blue eyes. Then I kissed his feet again and waited.
"Know why I'm going to bust your ass?"
"Yes, Job," I said. Job never made me call him 'Sir' or 'Master.' He just made sure that he name meant those things to me.
"Yeah? Tell me."
" I was disrespectful to your friend when he asked for my help, Job," I said.
"Yeah. Your tongue gets you into a lot of trouble your ass ends up paying for, doesn't it?"
"Yes, Job," I said, my face still buried in his feet.
"Okay, let's get started, " Job said as he moved a chair over near the couch where Mike was sitting. Then he sat down and said, "Strip and then get across my lap."
I quickly moved to take off my shoes, socks and underwear and pants. Keeping Job waiting when he has a paddle in his hands is simple idiocy.
I went over and moved to get into the usual position with my legs outside of Job's so as to spread my ass open over his lap. But as I tried to get my head down over the other side, I realized Job had placed the chair so close to the couch that I was laying with my head near Mike's knees.
"Put your head in Mike's lap, boy," Job said. So, realizing I had no choice, I did.
"Now, I'm going to give him thirty hard smacks, Mike," Job explained. "If he so much as twitches, blinks, or makes any sound, don't bother to count it." This wasn't the normal routine. Usually with Job, I was aloud to do any amount of begging, whining, or crying I wanted as long as I did nothing that kept him from doing whatever he wanted to do in order to punish me and as long as I did whatever he said immediately.
I felt the paddle lightly tap my balls, reminding me that he was about to paddle me and that I was entirely exposed to his view and reach. "As for you, boy, you keep your tongue under control and just lay there and take your licks."
The suddenly, the paddle drew back and crashed into my butt. The pain of a paddling always comes as a surprise. And no matter how much I say I like the idea of it, the pain of it always is, in a sense, unwelcome. I gave a grunt as the burn started.
"He made a noise and blinked," Mike said.
"So, that one doesn't count. Thirty left, boy," Job said as he rubbed the paddle across my ass.
"Does he always pop a boner when you beat him?" Mike asked as he reached over and pulled on my hair to force me to look up at him.
"Yeah, usually," Job said, "But he loses it pretty quick when I use the paddle. And if I spank him by hand, he cums and then goes soft... I never stop while he has a hard-on. If he is enjoying it, it can't be punishment, right?"
Mike laughed and then the paddle landed again. My feet started to kick and I almost moved my hands to cover my butt, but managed to keep control. Looking into Mike's face, I saw his lips twist into a little smile.
"That was one, I guess," he said. And in my heart, I felt grateful because he could have easily have said that one didn't count either.
Job and Mike proceeded in this fashion until the count reached thirty. I have no idea how many licks I actually took, probably around thirty-six or so. Luckily, I was allowed to cry as long as I did so without making any noise.
When he was done, Job did the same thing he always did when he finished beating me over his lap. He just shoved me off and let me fall on the ground. I, in turn, did what I always did which was to start kissing and licking his feet and thanking him for correcting me, saying how much I appreciated being punished and begging him to continue if I deserved more. I'd say or do anything to avoid more licks and I knew that if I didn't totally abase myself, audience or not, Job would have no problem giving me another round of the paddle.
Mike, meanwhile was laughing and seemed quite pleased by my performance. Job let me go on and on and then finally looked to Mike and said, "You want a blow job?"
Mike laughed and, I suspect, blushed. I'm not sure, of course, because my eyes were on Job's big toe and I was busy trying to lick between his toes -- which, I should add, had spent the day in his sneakers without any socks and weren't exactly daisies. But, then, I was pretty much use to that.
"You're kidding?"
"No, he owes you at least that. And, if you want, you can play with him for awhile while I go to the store and pick up some stuff. Get a blow job, get your feet licked -- it feels pretty good, actually, and give him a good hand-spanking if you want. If he gives you any trouble, just tell me and I'll supervise while you paddle his ass."
This last part, I think, was said for my benefit rather than Mike's.
"Um, okay," Mike said, sounding fairly tentative about the whole idea.
"Up," Job said to me and, responding enthusiastically, I lept up, being careful to put my hands on my head because if Job thought I'd tried to rub the burn out of my ass, which still felt like it was on fire, he'd feel obligated to start over. I had learned something in my time with Job.
Job held out a hand casually and said, "Gimme your balls, boy." I hated this, I have to say. But I also knew to be quick to obey. So I stepped forward and stood on my tip-toes and reached down and picked up the tip of my _c_o_c_k_ so as to get it out of my way. Then I put my balls in the palm of Job's hand. He closed his hand and gave a little squeeze that made me double over and feel like I'd vomit.
When I'd stood back up, my balls still firmly in Job's hand, he asked, "Who do these," another small squeeze for emphasis, "belong to, boy?"
"My balls belong to you, Job," I replied by rote, my voice cracking a little as I got another squeeze.
Suddenly Job was pulling on my balls and looking to Mike, "Here, you can borrow them. But give 'em back in good shape."
Mike looked for a moment and then a sadistic grin spread over his face as he reached over and grabbed my _c_o_c_k_ and balls all into his fist and gave a knee-buckling squeeze. "Sure. Take your time at the store..."
Job laughed and stood up... and I felt pretty sure that the next couple of hours weren't going to be spent making short jokes about Mike.
TO BE CONTINUED IF YOU WANT... email me. fratratus@yahoo. com