note to MMSA Stories Readers:
Saggin Jeaned Boy, who wrote the first two installments of this story has dared me, Stroker Al, to complete it. This is because his alter ego and star of the tales, Ronny the Punk dude, has clearly gotten too big for his britches and needs to be taken down several pegs--in fact, DEPUNKED. Try as he may, the cool dude can't seem to make Ronny pay for his jealous, mean actions against other guys who've done nothing wrong except inadvertently draw attention away from Ronny's long blonde hair and saggin jeans. I will see, with pleasure, that Ronny gets his comeuppance.
Depunking Part III
"And then what happened, Robert?" demanded Mr. Stroker, leaning across his desk with growing interest in the story the nervous student before him was struggling to tell. The boy looked up at his guidance counsellor with some mistrust, but decided he'd feel better if he spilled the whole story now.
"I asked Eric, 'What's wrong?' and leaned closer to him and Ronny to see what he was gaping at, 'cause the light in the barn was really dim," Bob continued.
"And what did you see?" asked Mr. Stroker impatiently.
"I saw--we saw--that right in the middle of the front of his silk boxers Ronny was.....uh, had a....a...." Bob stammered, trembling some and going very red in the face.
"Say it, Robert" Alan Stroker commanded the student, locking his eyes with a steely triumphant glare. "Ronny had a what?"
"Uh, a great big...bone-, uh, I mean....an erection," Bob muttered, looking away from the counselor with embarassment.
"Aw. c'mon, Robert, don't sanitize it for me--that little _f_u_c_k_er was BONED, wasn't he?" snarled Mr. Stroker.
Startled by such language coming from a school authority figure, Bob stared blankly at his interrogator for a few seconds before it dawned on him that Stroker Al, as he and his buddies laughingly refered to Mr. Stroker behind his back, had it out for Ronny and would take Bob's side against him in a dispute.
For the first time since the incidents at the barn, Bob suddenly saw a chance to pay back Ronny for every _s_h_i_t_ty thing he'd done and said to him.
"Yes!" grimaced Bob at the memory of the sight. "That homo was pitching a big rod, stickin' right up through the fly of his boxers, and it was all from spanking Donny's bare ass and shaving off his 'fro! He's _f_u_c_k_in'GAY, man, he's a god_d_a_m_n_ed faggot posing as a punk!" Bob cried, clenching his fists with welling anger.
Al's brows went up at the boy's sudden venting of rage, even though he'd expected some anger to come out of Bob at this part of the story. It was time to be firm and direct before things got out of control.
"What did he do to you then, B-- er, Robert?" Al asked softly, managing to hardly flinch at his unfortunate stumble over the boy's name, and looking the boy right in the eyes to assure him that he was listening with total empathy and no judgement.
Bob knew in that split second that somebody else had blabbed everything to Mr. Stroker and he groaned in disgust and embarassment, burying his face in one hand. What the _f_u_c_k_ing hell, he thought, maybe they'll throw the little _f_u_c_k_er's ass in jail if I press charges or something. He sighed and looked back up at his guidance counselor, who looked all business and no sweat, while Bob felt like a crumpled mess now. He had no way of knowing that even as he began to speak, hidden from view under his office desk, Alan Stroker was himself sporting a boner down the left leg of his cotton Dockers.
"That homo, Ronny," Bob finally snarled, "tried to cover up his fagness by shifting everybody's attention to me."
"And how did he do that?" asked Mr. Stroker.
"You _f_u_c_k_in' KNOW how, 'STROKER AL'!" Bob spat at him bitterly. As the counselor said nothing and didn't alter his expression upon hearing his derisive nickname, Bob continued.
"I was so shocked at his hard-on that my jaw had dropped open and the _f_u_c_k_er took that opportunity to grab me by the ears and pull my head down over his smelly, oozing dick, and he yelled out, "Hey, guess why his dad named him BOB!" Everybody was dead silent for a few seconds because nobody could _f_u_c_k_in' believe what they were seeing, and everybody knew I was no gay boy, but
all the sudden they're seeing me with my head in Ronny's lap, gagging on his dick."
Al listened with careful self control, scratching his chin where his goatee would be if the _d_a_m_n_ed principal hadn't casually suggested at his job interview that he shave it off to put forth the proper "image". Why didn't you BITE him, dumb_s_h_i_t_?, he wanted to say. That ballsy, mean little blond haired punk completely ruled these losers, getting away with _s_h_i_t_ like that, he mused to himself, in his increasing arrousal. That mouthy punk whose _f_u_c_k_ing baggy sagging pants he always wanted to yank up....or down.
_d_a_m_n_, he wanted to massage his throbbing prick, the head of which he could feel
poking out under the leg band of his cotton boxers and chafing against the khaki of his dockers. But any movement of the kind would have been too risky and could stop the crucial confessional flow of Bob's story dead in its tracks before the counselor could get him in the frame of mind he needed to proceed with his plans to go after Ronny..
"If it hadn't been for Donny bolting and running right then, I think the guys would have snapped out of it and jumped Ronny and beat the _s_h_i_t_ out of him," Bob observed, smacking his lips as if he was still trying to get his ex- friends penisy taste out of his mouth. "But Donny was so freaked out that he probably figured we were gonna gang rape him or something _f_u_c_k_ed up like that.
I mean he didn't really _f_u_c_k_in' know any of us at all. And once he tore out of
there, everybody else just freaked out, too--except Ronny--and scrambled. I punched Ronny in the stomach, spat out his smelly dick and tore ass out of there too.
I caught up with Eric and said, 'Hey man, you saw what that faggot did to me, didn't you? I never went for his faggot dick, did I? You gotta tell the others!'"
Bob was turning red again, and Al concealed a smirk at the boy's panic at being
mistaken for a voluntary _c_o_c_k_sucker.
"He said he would, but I wasn't sure, so I told them myself, and they made all kinds of fun of me, which I didn't care about because at least I could tell
that they believed me. But the thing was, I think they couldn't handle thinking about how Ronny could just do a thing like that, and it was easier to just tease me about being a faggot. I've stayed away from Ronny since then, and
was gonna just try to forget the whole thing." Bob looked up at Mr. Stroker. "that is, until I saw Karl and then Donny come out of your office
yesterday," he added.
At the mention of the students that had been similarly depunked by Ronny--and who had agreed to talk to him in private about the incidents--Al's erect _c_o_c_k_ throbbed. That skinny little punk with the saggin' jeans and eagle belt and maddeningly long blonde hair had GOTTEN AWAY with spanking and depunking two of the most rebelious looking students in the school, and the guidance counselor had to admit to himself that he'd have liked to done the same thing to the pair
of them. He rationalized to himself that they had deserved it for giving other kids rebelious ideas about the way to dress--in skin tight, holey jeans, for example--and for grooming themselves in such outrageous and distracting ways. But inside Al Stroker knew that unlike Ronny, Karl and Donny were pretty okay kids who never hurt anybody, and that the satisfaction he'd felt when first seeing their shorn heads in the hallways (and later, in his office, upon demand,
their blistered, weltered pink asses) had more to do with his tastes for rough _s_e_x_ with men than justice.
"Well, you did the right thing by coming to me, Robert," said Mr. Stroker. "Now. Would you like to see Ronny get his just desserts for what he's done to you? And for what he did to those other two boys?"
Bob hesitated when he thought about his own role in the depunking and spanking of the other two. "Well....yes, but..."
"And do you think justice will be served if we involve the police or the courts in this matter?" Al asked him.
"No!" cried Bob, panicked. "Please, you can't let anybody else find out that....."
"Good. Then you agree with the other boys and me that we need to handle Ronny in our own way if he's going to truly be taught a lesson, and if we are going to get...well, satisfaction out of the result?" Mr. Stroker smiled and winked at Bob, who could hardly believe his ears, and could hardly believe that
his skinny teenage _c_o_c_k_ was perking up at the news as well.
"Yes Sir!" replied Bob, beaming with conspiratorial glee and some rather sweet gratitude at his rule-bending counselor. The surprising man stood and extended his hand for Bob to shake, after which the boy turned towards the door to leave.
He was stopped short of the door by these words from Mr. Stroker: "Then, Robert, there only remains the matter of your involvement in the spanking of the other two students." Bob felt a little squirt of pee expel from the tip of his dick when he turned back to see Mr. Stoker taking his wooden paddle off the hook by his coat closet. "After we're finished here--and we still have your complete cooperation in our dealings with Ronny--you'll be able to rest assured that you have completely made up for the indiscretions you participated
in under the influence of that....that....long-haired baggy pantsed PUNK!"
By the time Bob finally became aware of the stiff meat that Mr. Stroker was concealing in his lap under thin layers of khaki and cotton, his own teen schlong was thrusting over it like a slim saw across a thickish log, in his relentless yet futile attempts to escape even a single one of the 40 painful smacks of the wooden paddle on his bare ass.
20 minutes later, blubbering with snot and tears, Bob was on his feet next to Mr. Stroker's desk, struggling to pull his white jockey shorts up over his sore ass and hide away his persistant bone, when he observed the guidance counselor openly rubbing his own _c_o_c_k_ through his pants and breaking into the kind of smile a guy gets when he suddenly has a bright idea.
"I'm a little unclear about something you described to me, Robert, and I think it would help if you demonstrated it." Bob gulped as he looked at the hard on snaking along Stroker's thigh under his pants, certain that he knew what was coming next. It looked big, but funny enough, not quite as big as that _d_a_m_n_ed Ronny's nasty pole.
"Okay," he muttered resignedly as he started to kneel down in front of Al's chair.
"No, stay standing," said Mr. Stroker in his famous 'benevolent' tone that many many students in the school understood to signal the onset of a grand gesture of mercy. The tall man knelt and leaned forward to half of his standing height.
"So you opened your mouth," Al said, and then formed his lips into a big "O".
Bob's slender erection quivered like a divining rod aiming directly towards the
deep, dark source of these words he couldn't quite believe he was hearing. Bob blinked as the tall man leaned closer.
"And then he grabbed you by the ears and --and THIS is the part I can't really understand--," Al continued. "you say he pulled your head down over him."
Bob trembled with excitement and lingering pain. He sucked some snot back up his nose and wiped some fresh tears off of his cheeks. "Yes," he said.
"Show me," said Mr. Stroker, his eyes rolled up to keep contact with Bob's, and his mouth held wide open, with his tongue resting thickly just within the red, wet curve of his lower lip.
The eighteen year old slowly, slowly, slowly brought his hands up to either side of his guidance counselor's head. Even more slowly he closed his fingers ever so gently around the big, warm pair of ears, and wondered if when he was thirty-five he'd have hair on his ears, too.
Almost a minute went by while Bob watched Al's eyes, and Al's mouth started to go dry hanging open like that. The older man sighed, shifted on his knees and managed to just say the words, "Pretend I'm Ronny-," before he felt his faculty nose smash roughly and deeply into the fine little brown brillo pad of the student's bush. At the same instant the delicate teen dickhead that Mr. Stroker had been mentally comparing to a wild strawberry was striking the first in what would prove to be a long, relentless jackhammering assault against the back of the counselor's throat, practically spearing on its way in that final magic word that had unlocked Bob's rage in a split second: Ronny.
Well, when Al had thought he'd bargained for a couple of minutes of gently fellating a troubled teen's dick, he hadn't counted on getting face _f_u_c_k_ed by Vin Diesel. Once convinced that his crushed ears might still remain attached to his head if he kept pace with Bob's javelin thrusts, the counselor gradually regained control of his lips and tongue and even his gag reflex, but ultimately just had to submit to Bob's ferocious rhythmn and forcefullness.
As he came, ten minutes later, lobbing jet after jet of hot angry cum down his guidance counselor's sore, choking throat, Bob screamed "_f_u_c_k_ YOU, RONNYYYYYYYY!!!!"
But of course it wasn't Ronny, but Al who was having to gulp down mouthfuls of sticky teen load as fast as he could to keep his airway clear enough to breathe, and it occurred to the worn out counselor that once again that sagging
jeans brat had ruined a truly fine student staff interaction. With his sore and
battered head feeling as smashed as a jack'o'lantern the day after Halloween, Al Stroker vowed he'd see to Ronny's total depunking.
The door opened and in walked Ronny.
He hadn't been in his Grandpa's barn since the day last week when he'd depunked Donny and pulled that fast one on Bob to deflect attention away from his hardon. Some rumors had been going around school, though, that one of the guys was getting ready to call the police and press charges, so Ronny decided he'd better get rid of any evidence left behind in the barn.
He looked around over by the saddlehorse where he and the guys had strapped Donny down, and started picking up stray clumps of kinky hair. Some of it was ground down pretty good into the straw and horse _s_h_i_t_ traces on the barn floor, but Ronny picked up as much as he could and tossed it into a trash barrel by the door. He cleaned the horse hair clippers and wiped down the paddle and hid them in a cupboard over the workbench.
After all that work he noticed he smelled like horse_s_h_i_t_, especially his hair, and he decided to take a coldwater shower in the outdoor stall next to the barn like he used to all the time as a kid, this time so that Gramma and Grandpa wouldn't know he'd been back to the farm, just in case anybody like the cops asked them any questions. He was pretty sure grampa still kept shampoo and soap out there, but he wasn't sure yet what he was going to use for a towel. Maybe some bedsheets from in the guesthouse or something.
After a quick look around to make sure no one was hanging around, Ronny stripped his protective punk armor off of his skinny frame, piece by piece. He hung his huge saggin jeans, big baggy boxers and black longsleeve t-shirt on the wooden hooks outide the stall and then stepped inside, closing and latching the door behind him. He gritted his teeth and braced himself for the cascade of cold filtered rainwater which came down upon him from the storage tank above as he yanked on the rope.
"WHOOOOOAAAAAOOOOOO!" he howled as the icy, fresh water hit his pale skin and soaked his blond fluffy mane into a heavy, ropy yellow dripping mop of hair. His pink titties got instantly hard from the frigid water, and he felt his low hangin nuts pulling themselves up hard, making his 6-inch schlong look bigger. He soaped himself up and felt the goosebumps all over his arms and legs, which he thought were too skinny, but in fact, one hidden observer of the naked punk enviously noted his resemblence to the equally slender nudity of Roger Daltry in a scene from the movie, Tommy.
Ronny found the bottle of shampoo he'd expected to be there, and squeezed out an extra big pearly dollop onto one palm, which he then worked into his wet scalp with his slender fingers, expecting to produce a huge lather, but instead, he just felt a sluggish stickiness. There was a sound from somewhere like a giggle, and he peered over the top of the stall and looked around, but could see no one. He cursed and poured out more shampoo to try and get a lather. This time he smelled its odd smell, which was sort of salty, mushroomy and unusually pungent. He worked it into his wet hair but still could not get a
lather.
He looked at the bottle: Prell shampoo. Hey, he thought to himself, this stuff is supposed to be clear green, not milky white. He took a whiff of the opening
of the bottle and instantly recognized from the piles of wadded up kleenex under his bed the dank, spermy scent of jizz. "Jesus _f_u_c_k_!" he cried, flinging the bottle away from him in disgust and jumping back under the spray of water to frantically to rinse some joker's disgusting spooge out of his beautiful blonde hair.
In answer, peals of raucus laughter errupted all around him, and he heard three or four guys suddenly banging on the wooden boards of the stall.
"How was your protein shampoo, pretty boy?" came a voice that was unmistakably Bob's.
Then came another familiar voice, saying, "Us guys mixed that up special for you, Ronny. We knew you couldn't resist washing your pretty hair in here, so we've been saving up for it all week!"
_f_u_c_k_, thought Ronny. It sounded like Karl.
"Yeah, I contributed three times a day!" jeered a third voice, which Ronny shuddered to recognize as Donny. Something nasty was up, that was for sure.
"Hand me those jeans, Karl," came a fourth, more mature voice which Ronny recognized with a shock as Mr. Stroker, the guidance counselor. He was being _f_u_c_k_ing betrayed in a conspiracy of preppy square faculty and loser students! He wasn't just gonna stand in there and let THAT happen. He burst out of the stall howling like a bashee to make a dive for his big saggin' jeans, but they were already missing from the hook, like the rest of his clothes, and he saw that Mr. Stroker already had them in his hands and seemed to be attatching something to them.
The three boys shouted at each other to get him, and they grabbed Ronny's naked wet limbs and held him in place. "Where do you think you're going, punk? Don't you want your makeover?" Karl laughed. He'd shaved his head bald to get rid of the little kid haircut Ronny had used to humiliate him, and now looked pretty mean and tough again. He'd already gotten another pair of hot-looking worn jeans, but not too holey this time so he could hide his blistered pink ass.
"Suck my dick, Kojack, you baldy little faculty ass kissing fag!" Ronny snarled at Karl, and then turned to Bob, adding "Oh wait, I forgot, it's YOUR JOB to suck my dick, isn't it?" Bob glared at him and slugged him in the stomach. As Ronny doubled over and groaned, he heard Donny laugh from the tall vantage point of his height, "We'll see whose job it is to suck Dick, Blondie!"
"Now boys," cautioned Mr. Stroker, half seriously, "First things first. Look Ronny, I've fixed your pants. Now you won't always be having to pull them up when you're walking down the hall in school!"
Ronny coughed and stood up slowly, trying to cover his _c_o_c_k_ and nuts from the jabs and jeers of the three other guys. He looked at his precious saggin jeans and saw that that bastard Stroker Al had permanently attached a pair of Ronny's Grandpa's suspenders to the waist of the jeans with one of those grommet guns.
"You are so fired, faggot!" Ronny spit at the older man, grabbing the ruined pants from him. "I'll tell everybody what a sadistic pathetic loser boy_f_u_c_k_er you are, and you'll never get another job!"
"Now Ronny, don't thank me until you've tried them on and see what an improvement I've made. Go on, put them on!" Mr. Stroker smiled.
At that second Ronny felt a shock on his right ass cheek from his Grandpa's electric cattle prod, which Donny had found and was starting to use. Ronny then decided the way to handle these guys was to comply just a little--just barely--but to hold on to his 'tude under pain of death. He held the jeans by the suspenders and stepped into them. Once he had snapped the ridiculous suspenders over his shoulders (jesus, older people really did dress like _s_h_i_t_) he could feel the crotch of the jeans tightly in a very unusual place: his crotch.
The three boys clapped and pointed and hooted, and Mr. Stroker grinned with satisfaction of having finally reached his goal of getting that punk Ronny to pull up his god_d_a_m_n_ed pants. Ronny didn't need a mirror to know that he looked
like Piddy or Poozy or some such one of the _f_u_c_k_ing Bear family from Highlights, that stupid old kids magazine from the doctor's office. _f_u_c_k_ em' he'd get out of this. He still had his luxurious hair, his cool boots over
in the corner unnoticed, his eagle belt, and his 'tude.
Ten minutes later, when Karl and Donny were hoisting him up in air by the suspenders, Ronny started to sweat. Maybe things weren't gonna be so easy to get through as he'd hoped. They'd hooked grandpa's suspenders over the bale hook, and were pulling him up by the rope looped through the pully, so that he would slowly spin in circles. His hands were lashed behind him with his own eagle belt, so he couldn't escape. Bob was busy bringing the paddle and the clippers back out. He looked on amusedly at Ronny's predicament.
"Look at the way those Jeans hike themselves up practically to his armpits, and how they line the crack of his punk ass!" laughed the traitorous Bob. "And hey, look at his crotch. His pants make him look like Napolean BONE apart! HAW HAW!"
The other two young guys joined in the laughter as they tied the rope to a crossbeam of an empty animal stall. But Mr. Stroker just smugly stood there with his arms crossed, looking up at the dangling, bound Ronny in self- satisfaction. It had been a professional risk getting Donny and Karl to go along with this highly illegal thing, especially since at first they'd just wanted to forget everything about Ronny's humiliations of them and put it behind them, so to speak. But the persuasive and seductive mental picture that Stroker had painted for the boys detailing his plans for Ronny's humiliating and painful punishment, and the roles that they could play in it, finally brought the depunked pair around, and in fact they became giddy with anticipation.
Bob, of course, had been difficult in a different, more distasteful way, which Al, for all his current smugness, didn't care to recall to mind at that moment, and in fact it was making his ears throb and his throat feel scratchy and choked up and his stomach a little queasy, and he was even becoming a bit disoriented to the point that for a strange second, his vision of the captured Ronny had become foggy and vague and he'd had a second of panic from the sudden fear that somehow Ronny had escaped. But no, the psychotically jealous punk brat was still swinging above him, pants pulled up practically to his chin.
"Okay, Amigos," he announced, clapping his hands. "Pinata time!"
Ronny drew in his breath when he saw Stroker hand the paddle to Karl, who stepped up below him and prepared his swing like a batter at the plate. First depunked, first crack at my ass, he guessed, cringing in anticipation of what that _f_u_c_k_ing paddle was going to feel like. Karl swung hard.
SMMMMAAAAAACKKKKKKK! Ronny had the wind knocked out of him with that first blow, it hit him so hard. The other two boys cheered Karl on for his deflowering paddle spank of the superpunk's formerly virgin ass. They were eager for their turns to come.
SMMMMAAAAAACKKKKKKK! SMMMMAAAAAACKKKKKKK! Karl swung that paddle to beat of sweet revenge on Ronny's ass. _f_u_c_k_in' brat ripped open the seat of Karl's favorite jeans and spanked his ass a couple weeks ago, and then the committed the ultimate discretion: he hacked off Karl's awsome mohawk out of pure jealousy.
"You're gonna pay for my mohawk, punk!" he hissed at the gasping Ronny, who was trying not to react to the erupting pain and the humiliation of getting spun around with each blow like some kind of punching clown.
"You'll never get it back, Karl. It's gone. I TOOK it from you!" Ronny boasted, trying to act as tough as he could while he still could. The next furious smack from Karl almost made him burst into a sob. _f_u_c_k_, it hurt his skinny little ass.
"I'll be taking something from YOU, _f_u_c_k_er, before this is through!" whispered menacingly.
The force of the paddle blows also made Ronny rock forward and back on the hook, which tightened his grandpa's suspenders and pulled the crotch of his jeans tighter up under his balls and his ass crack. It was hurting like hell, but also rubbing the zipper and denim along the understide of his boned rod, which was making it stiffer. At least he wasn't suffering the humiliation that Karl had of having his bare baby pink butt turned over someone's knee. And at least Ronny's cool jeans were providing some padding and visual cover from what was happening to him.
Karl paddled Ronny's ass 30 times before handing the implement over to Donny. As a taller guy, Donny had a little more control over what angle he could approach Ronny's targeted ass with the blows of the paddle. Ronny giggled and danced around his spinning victim as he landed each smack of the paddle, sort of as if he were playing pingpong on both sides of a table and Ronny's punk butt was the ball. SMMMMAAAAAACKKKKKKK! SMMMMAAAAAACKKKKKKK! SMackity Smack!
"Gettin' a bone from this, Ronny?" he teased. He knew now, just like the others, that in this very barn Ronny had gotten off on spanking his ass and
shaving his head down to the stubble that he was hiding under a cool stocking cap. He reached up and squeezed Ronny's stiffening bone through the nylon jeans, and Ronny gasped.
"Hands off, gayboy! That's my tool you're fondling"
Donny ignored the lame taunt from the punk with the doomed ass. "Ha ha. He's already stiff from getting his ass pounded. Wait'll we get him bare assed! He'll be spurting juice all over!"
Ronny groaned. Bare assed? What all were they going to do to him? He had to keep up the banter, or they would think he was wussing out. "Then you'd better stand under me with your mouth open, _c_o_c_k_sucker" he sneered. Donny snorted in contempt and then gave Ronny a spin on the hook, and landed a volley
of ten paddle smacks in quick succession across the punk's ass each time it rotated towards him. He heard a definite whimper coming from Ronny by the eigth blow. The superpunk was coming unpunked. Bit by bit.
When Donny finally handed the paddle to Bob, AL interrupted on his behalf with the next phase of the plan. They would lower Ronny back to the ground take off his cool jeans and put him back up this time with only his baggy boxers on, grommetted to a second pair of suspenders. It would be almost impossible now for Ronny to conceal his stiff, throbbing appreciation for the smackass 'cameraderie' that he and his 'friends' were sharing. In fact, having to support his entire body weight made Ronny's silk boxers stretch out so long that they just crawled up along the crack of his ass in back and strangled his balls in the front with a vise-like grip. When Bob stepped up with the paddle,
Ronny was looking like an albino anorexic sumo wrestler disguised as a trapeze artist. His ass was already turning bright pink, and there was plenty more of it showing now than before.
SMMMMAAAAAACKKKKKKK! SMMMMAAAAAACKKKKKKK! SMMMMAAAAAACKKKKKKK! went the spanky sound of hard swinging wood asgainst bratty punk buttocks. And half way through BOb's 40 paddle smacks of his ass, Ronny started pleading with him to stop.
"I'm sorry I was such a......such a.....prick," Ronny began, in a barely controlled blubber, but Bob cut off the strangely worded attempt at bargaining with faster, sharper blows of the paddle smart across his enemy's stinging butt. Once when swinging the paddle back to gear up for another blow, Bob "accidentally" grazed the tented out front of Ronny's thin boxers with the corner of the paddle, which made Ronny scream with penile pain. It felt like his dick head had been plucked off and shot across the room with a slingshot.
Then it was time for Mr. Stroker's turn at bat. He pulled up a milking stool-- "How appropriate!" he laughed cryptically, and had the boys lower Ronny so that he could sprawl across the counselor's lap. Leaving his hands bound with the eagle belt, Al undid the suspenders and peeled Ronny's silk boxers down and off of Ronny's skinny white ass and legs. They left the hook suspended just above in case they needed it later. Ronny was now butt ass naked and red assed and blubbering softly as he lay across Al's thighs, where his stiff boner was trapped and actually throbbing next to the counselor's.
Mr. Stroker decided to forgo the paddle and instead hand spank the still unrepentant student delinquent. Besides being more tactile fun, working Ronny's ass over with his bare hands allowed for the boys to attend to other aspects of Ronny's well-deserved humiliating depunking.
For example, as Al spanked away, Karl began to wreak his revenge on Ronny's semen-scented but still beautiful damp blond hair--all shiny and radiant from its 'protein' treatment.
"Hey-...what are you... doing?" gasped Ronny in between spanks as Karl began lifting locks of his hair and arranging it. "Gonna give you a nice big fa braid, farm girl!" Karl laughed, as he separated strands of Ronny's golden
locks with his fingers. "You have SUCH beautiful hair, Ronny. Better than mine ever was!"
Ronny was incredulous, hearing this coming from a tough looking dude whose mohawk he had brutally hacked off, but his incredible vanity made him want to believe these words awfully badly. It felt weird to feel Karl's fingers working deftly in his precious hair, lifting and folding over large locks as he
braided the thick, rope punk mane. The gentle tugging at his scalp felt almost sensual to Ronny, especially when he compared it to the burning ass spanking Mr. Stroker was giving him. He found himself checking out Karl's stuffed light blue jeans basket which was only a few inches in front of his face, and had a rather unexpected memory of how hot Karl had looked when he had his mohawk, and
was actually regretting for the first time what he'd done to him.
When Karl finished the braiding, Ronny felt him slip two rubber bands onto the long, incredibly thick appendage of hair: one at the dense root of the braid and the other at the pigtail end. "Look everyone!" Karl said sweetly, showing off his handiwork. "Ronny has a beautiful braid!" The other boys looked up from their work (Bob filling Ronny's boots with sour cow's milk, Donny spearing
Ronny's saggin jeans repeatedly with a pitchfork against some hay bales) and oohed and ahhed facetiously.
"But...I dunno," said Karl. "It sort of makes him look like a girl, doesn't it?"
"Yeah!" agreed Bob. "That's a problem. Especially laying there all nude and wiggling his ass like he's doing!"
"_f_u_c_k_ you, _c_o_c_k_sucker!" Ronny spat, not liking the direction the banter was going.
"Actually, it kinda makes me wanna _f_u_c_k_ YOU, goldilocks!" Donny teased. "Why else would you want to have girl's hair?"
"It isn't _f_u_c_k_ing girl's hair. It's punk hair! It's MY hair" Ronny cried!
"No it's not, Ronny," said Karl, lifting the braid straight up from the back of the punk's head. "It's MINE!"
With those words, Karl closed the open blades of a huge pair of gardening shears around the _c_o_c_k_-thick base of Ronny's braided pride and joy and with that sickening metalic scrape like a classroom papercutter, sheared clean through it, cutting the boy's hair off at about a half inch from his scalp.
"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" Ronny screamed when he felt the severing of his punkhood. The other boys clapped and cheered as Karl strode around the bard holding up his punk trophy by the piggy tail, while the former owner started to bawl from the humiliation and the intense pain of the spanking. That _f_u_c_k_in hair was really all he had once he stepped out of those jeans' It pissed him off that they all found it so funny.
Al laughed for a bit, too, though when Karl suddenly handed him the braid, he spanked Ronny's ass with it for a few minutes. He also tickeled Ronny's pink little pucker of an asshole with the small paintbrush tip of the braid. Then Bob grabbed it from him and took off with it somewhere for a few minutes.
Next Al flipped Ronny over and held his feet up in the air like when you change a baby's diaper, and continued to spank Ronny's ass that way. Karl finished off his scalping of Ronny's head by shaving it down with the horse clippers and
then smearing huge globs of Nair through his remaining stubble. Meanwhile, Donny smeared more nair all over Ronny's gnarled blond bush, and even rubbed it
all over his balls. Because both boys wore gloves, they didn't feel the burn that Ronny felt when the last traces of his pretty punk mane slobbed off of the
curve of his balding head and plopped onto the barn floor. He bawled even louder when the sludge poored off of his balls and groin leaving him hairless as a 6th grader.
Bob returned with the braid that he'd dipped in a bucket of grandma's lard for lube, and he crammed Ronny's thick long braid slowly and painfully up Ronny's tight little asshole, until just the little piggy tail showed. Getting _f_u_c_k_ed by his own punk blond hair made Ronny come all over his own stomach, as if in involuntary celebration of his complete depunking.
They hung him back up on the hook by the eagle belt around his wrists AND ankles this time, and kept him so his head was just about waist high. Then the
three boys started unbuckling their jeans and explained to Ronny what he was going to have to do for each of them one by one in exchange for their promise that no one outside that group would ever hear the embarassing details of his depunking.
"_f_u_c_k_ all of you, you wankers" mumbled Ronny, and just started sucking like he didn't give a _s_h_i_t_. Actually he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possbible, and judging by how hard they all were and stroking as they watched him give head, it wouldn't probably take that long. He nipped at their tender dick heads with his teeth just to piss them off and be a bratt, and for that he
got many more smacks on the bare ass.
Al laughed and looked over at the suspended Ronny, spanked, shaved, bawling. _d_a_m_n_, revenge was sweet. That _f_u_c_k_ing long hair and those _f_u_c_k_in saggin jeans of Ronny's had been pissing him off since the day he'd first seen him slinking sullenly down the hall. And now the King Punk was depunked at last! Yes, victory was SWEET!