From: sfpo8@aol.com (SFPo8)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking
Subject: Rainy Saturday
Date: 17 Apr 1996 13:40:30 -0400

[Nothing special; just a typical genre story, but I haven't written any
prose for quite a while]

Outside the trees are being whipped by the wind, and the splatter of a
downpour rattles my windows every half minute or so.  It is miserable and
cold out there, and it is miserable in here, too. 

A wet Saturday always seems to bring out the worst in me. Hemmed into the
house, I find ways to get in trouble, and by afternoon, I have often
earned a spanking.  Sometimes it is really unfair, a punishment for some
stupid thing I did without thinking, which I would never do again whether
I got the spanking or not.  I guess I can't argue about getting those
spankings, but I wish I didn't have to. This one I know I deserve, and I
know it is going to be a really bad one.  Every time the wind shakes the
house, I think maybe it's dad on his way up to my room, and I kind of wish
it was, so I could get this over with, and then I really don't want it to
happen at all, although I know it's going to.

If it was mom, it wouldn't be as bad, even though it is more embarrassing
now that I am thirteen.  She hasn't spanked me for a long time, maybe a
couple of months, and I think the last time, when she had me take my pants
down and saw that I had changed "down there" she was more embarrassed than
I was. She sure got me over her knee fast, and she started right in with
the hairbrush as if she was really mad,  but I think she was just in a
hurry to get it over with because of what she saw.  She usually wouldn't
spank so hard for my just forgetting to call home when I stayed late at
Steve's, though, of course, I've done the same thing before, and been
spanked for it; so maybe she was out of patience.  Whatever.  I was crying
in a few seconds and really bawling by the time the spanking was over, and
when I jumped up and grabbed my bottom to rub out the sting she got out of
the room fast. So maybe that was it.   
     
If it hadn't been raining today, I would have gone over to Steve's to play
some catch.  I wouldn't have been home all morning without much to do, and
so I wouldn't have bugged my parents by playing the stereo too loud, and
they wouldn't have been all "Turn that damn thing down" and "Why don't you
get your homework done ahead of time, for once?" and I wouldn't have been
pissed and gone in the garage and snooped around.

See, this is the part I still think isn't fair. I mean, I know that dad
has said to leave his tools alone unless he is there 'cause they are
pretty expensive and all, and I do remember the spanking I got, right
there in the garage,  when I was fooling around with that screwdriver
punching holes in the wall. I don't know why I did that.  He had me over
his knee, sitting on the workbench, giving me this really hard spanking
and asking "Why did you do that?" and I didn't know, and he kept spanking
me as if there was some answer I had to give, but finally when I was
really crying he stopped.  I still have this funny feeling when I look at
that workbench. I was about seven then, I think.  

So I always leave those tools and the toolbox alone, but, see, I didn't
have anything to do, and I thought maybe I could find something to punch a
new hole in my belt, because I am growing and it's too tight.   So I
figured he'd never know, and I looked all around and finally found the
toolbox, and that's when I found the pile of magazines.  Kinda hidden
under it with some other stuff, y'know?  And when I saw the cover of the
first one I knew why they were hidden, but it took me a moment to really
believe it was my dad who hid them there, except I knew it had to be.  

It's kind of hard for me to even say what was in them. I mean - this was
really, really crude.  You know?  For gosh sakes, the first one was called
"Wet Pussy" and it was just one picture after another of girls with
nothing on sitting there with their legs apart so you could see - and
sometimes with their fingers pulling it open so you could see inside . . .
I'd never seen anything like that.  And the next one was "Cum 94" and
showed mostly guys' dicks, and big splotches of sperm, or I guess semen is
the right word, and sometimes they had shot it on the girls' breasts or
legs but mostly on their faces or in their mouths and sometimes they had
it still right in their mouths and the girl would be looking up, you know,
smiling, with this stuff all over her face, like she liked it? 

So I couldn't help it; I just got - well - turned on. You know.  And so
there I was, looking at this stuff, and I had my hand down the front of my
pants - actually, that's not right, because when I was looking at "69 -
96" I remember I had my pants open in the front and my hand was, well, I
don't know exactly what was happening at that moment, but I wasn't
thinking of anything except how I felt, and that's why I never saw my dad
come in the garage or walk up behind me.  

So at first I was just completely embarrassed that he caught me like that.
I mean, I know there's nothing wrong with it, all guys do that stuff, and
I've been doing it for over a year, and I bet dad did when he was my age,
so he had to know - hell, everybody knows about jerking off.  I mean, what
did he have those magazines for, anyway, except to - I guess. I don't know
why  - but I guess grown-ups could do that sometimes, maybe - I mean, I
guess even a guy my dad's age could - well - maybe when  - well, I don't
know.  But still - getting caught!  God. So that's all I was thinking
about was getting it back in my pants real quick, and being so - you know
- so  . . .  I just wanted to get out of there like it didn't happen at
all.  

I forgot that they were his magazines. He'd hidden them under the toolbox
because that was the one place I was never supposed to fool around unless
he was there. So he must of been just as embarassed as I was, but then he
didn't want to talk about that, of course, so I guess that the reason he
got so mad was so he didn't have to talk about it at all. I mean, if it
was all my fault for being where I shouldn't, then it wasn't his fault,
like.  

So he just didn't say anything for a long time, and I stood there, tucking
in my shirt, and then he said, "Son, this time you really blew it.  You
know what I told you about fooling around in here. You've been asking for
trouble all day, and now you found it:  a spanking you're not going to
forget, for a long time. A spanking you'll be feeling every time you sit
down this week."

I knew enough not to say anything. He was trying to keep his temper in,
and anything I said would make it worse, for sure. I just stood there,
wondering if he would put me over his knee, or tell me to get my pants
down, and too scared to make a move of any kind. He semed to be reaching
for his belt, thinking about something, looking at the magazines . . . 
and then I understood. If I got spanked then and there, mom might hear it,
would hear it, might come down to see what was going on, and might find .
. . and somehow this was making him even madder at me!  He was frozen, and
furious; all he wanted was to start in giving it to me on my bare butt,
and he couldn't. We just stood there, facing each other, listening to the
water dripping off the roof and the wind pulling at the shingles over the
garage.

Finally he said it. "Go up to your room.  Wait there.  I will be up later,
and you better believe that you are going to be soundly spanked today,
spanked as you have never been before. Get going!"

So that was about an hour ago.  I thought it would be over by now, the
spanking, and the crying, the tears, the pain, the begging for him to
stop, and him not stopping.  Every time the wind gusts against the glass,
I jump; I am sure it's him outside. Here to give me the worst spanking of
my life, with his hand for a long time, and then with the belt. I even
went and opened the door once when I thought he was out there, but he
wasn't.  It was just the wind, and the blast of rain on the hall window.

An hour of waiting for a spanking like this one is the worst thing in the
world.  You get so you just keep thinking about how awful it is going to
be to take down your pants and underpants and have him tell you to get
over his knee, knowing how much it is going to hurt, knowing how the
burning pain is going to build and build and how I'll be promising to be
good, promising anything, saying anything, yelling and crying and just
feeling my bottom get sorer and sorer, burning all over, and then hearing
him tell me to kneel over the edge of the bed so he can lay on that belt,
as I know he's going to, until I can't even beg any more because all I can
do is cry.    

And the trouble is, every  so often I think about what I saw in those
magazines.  His magazines. And when I do - I can't help it - I get all -
hard.  You know? What if he comes in when I am like - that?  What if I
take my pants down and he sees - and it reminds him of - it will be even
worse.  

So I sit here on the bed, where I'm going to be lying across his lap,
getting this awful spanking, and I and listen to the rain, and all I can
think is:

"Oh, dad, please, come up and give me my spanking now, please, now!  I
can't wait here like this anymore.  Please!  I *don't* want to be spanked,
but I *am* going to be spanked, and really hard, so no matter how hard it
is --- please, please, can't I get it over with?" 

And even as I think that, the rain keeps beating at my window, as if the
whole world was holding me here in my room, waiting for that spanking to
happen, and I know that it's going to be awful, but afterwards, even if
I'm crying, it can't be as bad as sitting here now.  

Hal