Disciplines, a novel - , Chapters 1

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Disciplines, a novel by RE Stinger ©2024 Part 1 - Chapters 1-7

Chapter 1: A Call from the Principal

The phone rang at 2:50 on a Thursday afternoon in late March. Aaron Weitz, a graphic designer, was working at home that afternoon.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Mr. Weitz or Mr. Kellner?"

"Aaron Weitz speaking."

"Mr. Weitz, this is Stephen Jackson, the principal of Dylan's school. I'm calling to let you know, as usual, that I plan to administer corporal punishment to your son, for which you provided written consent when you enrolled him."

"As usual?" Aaron queried.

"I'm afraid so. I left messages well before carrying out each punishment, should you have wished to refuse or revoke your consent entirely; and afterwards, to inform you that the punitive actions had been taken. This is the fifth such incident in a month. I presume you received my calls with the details of the last four disciplinary procedures."

Aaron was at sea, but he had an idea about what happened to those messages. He didn't usually work at home during his foster son's school hours, and messages would be transferred to his cellphone's voicemail. Clearly, they had been deleted from both voicemail systems before he`d had the opportunity to hear them.

"I've been very preoccupied and haven't been listening to my messages in detail. Would you remind me what the situation has been over the past... month, you said?"

"You know, when you and your husband enrolled Dylan in our school, you were impressed with our zero-tolerance policy for any form of bullying, discrimination, harassment, or intolerance. But over the last month, Dylan has been harassing a fellow student because he's gay. It had probably been going on longer but I was unaware of it. It's very disturbing. Apparently, among other offenses, Dylan has continuously gone out of his way to insult this student publicly, pushed him down the stairs, and most recently, punched him, nearly breaking his nose, while shouting anti-LGBT slurs.

"Somehow, Dylan managed all this out of view of any staff. It was finally reported to me by several students. The boy, Richard Conrad, was too frightened to return to school for days, until he told his parents what was going on. The parents came to me and, like the students, identified Dylan as the bully.

"When I learned about the last few incidents--surely you must remember those, I called to ensure your comfort with the idea of disciplining Dylan. When I received no response, I assumed that your written consent was adequate and proceeded to paddle him. The repetition has become rather harrowing. Corporal punishment hasn't been used nor required here for nearly a century, certainly not at the levels I had to employ: ten, twenty, twenty-five on the briefs and twenty swats bare. Dylan showed no remorse and hurled epithets at me! After the latest incident, with potential legal ramifications for the school, I intend to give him twenty-five swats bare, which is distressing and without precedent.

"The only other option is expulsion. In fact, should Dylan exhibit such alarming anti-social behavior again, we will be forced to expel him and you'd need to enroll him in a school that can handle him. All of this has really rattled the staff because Dylan is one of the brightest, most gifted students we've ever had here."

Aaron was stunned. He realized that he had to be candid with the principal.

"If I'd heard any of these terrible details, I would certainly have remembered them and taken action. Somehow, I never got the messages. Thank you for informing me. You may proceed with the discipline. Under any other circumstances, I wouldn't consent, but it sadly seems applicable."

Aaron was consumed with worry. After all, he was a happily long-married gay man. Of course, the idea of corporal punishment was hardly new to him or his husband, but never as a real-world practice, which he found abhorrent.

At age five, Aaron discovered that he was excited by whipping scenes in movies and started to seek them out when he was old enough to check TV listings. The discovery of his pronounced flagellistic streak appeared well before he'd even realized he was gay.

Aaron grew up in an affluent suburb of Philadelphia, and was always confident and intelligent. He attended an excellent private school and coursework was a breeze for him. He was an artist, painting and drawing brilliantly, having informal exhibitions while still in high school. He eventually gravitated toward graphic design.

By then, he knew he was gay, with Semitic good looks, on the tall side, dark wavy hair, trim, defined, vivid blue eyes, an avid swimmer. When he came out, it was no problem at school: in fact, boys were suddenly all over him, as girls had previously been. But his family was another matter--surprising, as they were about as progressive and left-leaning as it was possible to be. The initial disapproval by his parents was a shock.

His mother, who had always been difficult anyway, said "wait `til I'm dead." That was disgusting, but it was his favorite aunt--the one who'd introduced him to art and encouraged his talent--who really hurt him. After a lifetime of unconditional, mutual devotion, she told him she felt that being homosexual was "like any other deformity, like a clubfoot." True, they eventually came to be supportive--his mother aggressively so (as with everything she did), but trusting them was no longer possible. He continued to trust his father, who'd said, "when I was your age, I also thought I was gay."

"Yeah, Dad," Aaron remembered thinking, "I always had the feeling you were too."

Aaron attended Swarthmore College, which has a small, gifted student body and very limited enrollment; the unofficial slogan used by the students and printed on T-shirts, was "Anywhere else it would have been an `A'." Yet, Aaron maintained an astonishingly high grade-point average there, though he did have to work harder.

He also worked on his sexual tastes, becoming part of the SM scene in Philly at first. But he was turned off by all of its paraphernalia and artificiality. He soon settled on spanking: of course, he was a dom/spanker. It was not true violence like the brutal floggings enacted in the films he'd craved during his childhood and which he now found tiresome.

Being a spanker meant a clearer perspective and a safe environment while still being as hot as he needed. Moreover, Aaron was no fan of all the exotic spanking tools in use by most others; he was content with [1] a Jokari paddle, [2] two stiff 18" rulers, one wood and the other metal, [3] a heavy oval hairbrush, and most of all, [4] a thick 2"-wide leather belt that could never be used for its original purpose, as its excessive weight tended to pull one's jeans down rather than hold them up.

With his looks and passions, Aaron went through a string of hook-ups and boyfriends who wanted to be his subs/spankees. Aaron never understood the taste for that role but appreciated these guys, as they were the yang to his yin. His third boyfriend, Nick, who had, as one of Aaron's friends swooningly put it, "violet eyes to die for," initially said he wasn't into spanking: "I don't need the welts."

That disingenuous attitude didn't last long. Aaron convinced him to place his unbelievably hot "bubble butt" over Aaron's lap as foreplay. After a few slaps, he cried, "harder, harder!" and almost immediately requested various implements to replace Aaron's hand. He was soon happily taking as many as 75 strokes from the belt or heavy wooden ruler. Aaron had to be vigilant because Nick often came so close to orgasm during those spankings that Aaron needed to stop so he could fuck Nick. The relationship developed problems--though never sexual ones--and ended after about fifteen months.

Some of Aaron's more casual hook-ups were very demanding of Aaron's spanking prowess (these boys invariably sought Aaron out, never the other way around). One guy, he recalled, took 150 hard lashes of his heavy belt. He never uttered the safe word, which was not unusual because no matter how intense the scene, Aaron always inspired complete trust. By the time the guy's ass was crimson and covered with welts and bruises, Aaron became concerned and wanted to stop, but he entreated, "Please, sir, may I have some more?"

Aaron refused to comply and fucked him roughly instead, continuously whacking that swollen, raw ass with his hands as hard as he could. The guy shot a monstrous load in minutes without touching his dick, moaning so loudly that Aaron quickly gagged him and continued fucking him, thinking, "If it's spanking you want, I'll give it to you inside and out." The guy became hard again during that ferocious fuck, and Aaron refused to let him come again, slapping him to tears when he begged for permission. It was a crazy experience even for Aaron.

The guy called him a week later, wanting to connect again. Aaron thought about it, but when the guy said, "Every time I feel the welts on my ass, I get hard," Aaron politely pleaded a prior engagement. Not bad for a 22-year-old.

His wild oats largely sown, he easily got into Princeton for grad school, where he met his future husband, Jay Kellner, who had come from Columbia University, as well as the nearby Manhattan School of Music: he was a marvelous oboist. They were instant friends and, it turned out, very compatible in every way, particularly sexually. Jay was a New Yorker who'd had little trouble coming out. When he told his family, their reaction was: "Mazel tov. Good for you, but it's hardly news." And really, he did conform to the cute, if hunkier, bearded "ginger" type with soft green eyes, a bit shorter than Aaron.

Jay had discovered spanking via the same film route as Aaron, but his pleasure lay at the other end of the whip. Like Aaron, he found all the gear associated with SM too fussy and it bored him; it reminded him of nothing so much as all the tchatzkes in his grandmother's house. What could be less sexy? Jay found that spanking was the easier and more socially acceptable, but still gratifying, means of being "at the other end of the whip." But it seems that subs/spankees were far more plentiful than doms/spankers, so Jay didn't quite have as easy a time finding consistent satisfaction.

When Aaron and Jay first got together, it was pretty wild, not unlike Aaron's above-described one-nighter. Aaron would typically deliver a hundred strokes with the Jokari paddle or ruler, Jay's writhing totally hot, his cries music to both their ears. Aaron would move on to the hairbrush (how traditional!), giving Jay a fifteen-minute walloping that left his ass a well-blistered cherry-red with black bruises, his dick as hard as a rock and dripping. Aaron's belt was Jay's favorite though (it was everyone's). Aaron never held back; in fact, even with his sinewy arms, he'd have to rest from time to time while Jay's red-furred and profoundly swollen ass could go on for ages.

Jay couldn't believe his luck. Their love and trust was implicit and Jay couldn't get enough rough fucking. An outside observer wouldn't suspect such penchants: these were two of the kindest, funniest, most open-hearted people one could meet. Matches "made in heaven" are rare but this was sure one of them. They delayed marrying until 2015 when it was federally recognized.

They'd both completed their PhDs several years earlier. Aaron had a great job back in Philadelphia. Jay, though now a full-fledged musicologist with important publications to his name, decided he'd had it with academia and became a freelance oboist, soon specializing in period oboe and traveling a good deal; he was much in demand. They'd moved to the modest Philly suburb of Prospect Park and acquired one of the better homes there. Over time, heavy spanking left the spotlight, now less frequent, if hot, foreplay.

The last year-and-a-half with Dylan had placed tremendous strain on them. They were a generous, compassionate couple who had taken in a very troubled 15-year-old kid from a foster care home after being told why he'd been placed there. Dylan had psychotically abusive biological parents. When news of the abuse reached the authorities, he was removed from that environment at age 11, and the parents were placed in custody.

The extensive scars they had left on Dylan were not only physical. He became angry and abusive, verbally and occasionally physically. Two previous foster families had been unable to cope with his outbursts, hateful speech, and occasional violent behavior, and he ended up back in the system. Aaron and Jay were made aware of it all. In fact, Jay was hesitant about Dylan altogether; he hated both the thought of being the third failed couple and the idea that it could fuel vile homophobic agendas: "See, fags really can't raise kids."

But Aaron was undaunted, especially after seeing police photos of Dylan immediately after his removal from his bio-parents: practically all of Dylan's little body was badly bruised or cut, his eyes black, and he was acutely malnourished. Aaron's compassion outweighed his and Jay's misgivings about the boy's more recent history. Although Aaron was a sexual spanker, the idea of actual abuse was utterly repugnant to him.

Besides, now in their mid-late thirties, they'd been together for over fourteen years; a more stable, loving couple would be hard to find. Aaron, ever the optimist and the more outwardly emotional of the two, felt that any obstacle could be overcome.

But trouble followed in Dylan's wake. Though settled in a comfortable, nurturing environment, Dylan "acted out" daily. He barely let his foster dads hug him; even when they knew he needed the warmth of human contact, he would stiffen and push them away. He exploited every opportunity to cause disharmony by heckling them, often calling Aaron "Fairon" and Jay "Gay," or even "Jew." Whether the homophobia and anti-Semitism were genuine or tests of Aaron's and Jay's patience, the behavior exerted undue stress on the household. When the couple would become impatient with each other, Dylan would gloat over his "achievement."

Lying in bed, they would often try to figure out how to deal with the slurs, the disrespect, the arrogance, and the obvious anger expressed by this abused, troubled teen, without having to admit defeat by returning him to the foster care system. Jay had ceased his earlier "I told you so" attitude which drove Aaron crazy, coming to accept that they had a real situation on their hands.

Jay taught at the Curtis Institute, but was away freelancing for days or weeks at a time. When he was away, he and Aaron spoke by cellphone. In the past, those calls were the highlights of each other's days. But now, Jay dreaded what a call might reveal regarding their foster son. He never "checked out," but his schedule put the more immediate strain on his husband. Jay was, in fact, on tour when the most recent developments were shared with him. His reaction was: "Look, we've been trying our best for almost two years, and things have barely gotten better. I'm exhausted and I know you are--even more so. I think it may be time to throw in the towel."

Aaron knew there was truth in that, but he wasn't ready to give up. After all, he was an optimist who still believed that it was their mission to save a kid who, however maddening, had become part of their lives. He just needed to figure out how. He was convinced that Dylan's anti-social behavior stemmed from the grotesque abuse he had suffered, and that they could normalize him.

The latest revelations from Principal Jackson, however, had made it more difficult to conceptualize. They were trying to raise a kid who not only showed scant respect for them, but who apparently had violent homophobic tendencies. Aaron's heart sank at the reality of their possible failure. He didn't want to give up on Dylan.

By the time Aaron and Jay had finished their disheartening call, Aaron noticed that he had received a voicemail from the principal informing him that the final disciplinary action had been completed and, should it have yielded no positive result, that it was now up to Aaron and Jay to decide how they wanted to proceed with Dylan's education.

Chapter 2: The Prodigal Son Returns

At that moment, the key turned in the lock on the front door and Dylan entered, looking perhaps a bit disheveled (or was Aaron merely projecting?) but was his usual cute self, with wavy dark-brown medium-long hair, parted in the middle and cascading onto his forehead, hazel eyes, and a little shorter than his foster dads. He immediately had to suppress his shock that one of his "keepers" was home at 3:45 in the afternoon.

Even with his generally surly veneer, Dylan was excellent at dissembling, and he behaved as though nothing was amiss. This time, however, he knew he had probably been caught. He just didn't know to what extent his deception had been uncovered. He decided to play it cool, saying a perfunctory "hi" to Aaron and, not too hastily, mounting the stairs to his room, shutting the door behind him.

With the new information, Aaron was determined to confront Dylan, even if it meant losing him. After five minutes' consideration, Aaron went upstairs to Dylan's room.

Dylan's tastes perplexed Aaron and Jay, given his anti-social demeanor and conduct: art prints by the French impressionists and surrealists, pop music by, of all people, Rufus Wainwright and Troye Sivan, as well as 18th century music he'd heard Jay practicing.

"Hey, Aaron, what's up?" he said lazily from a supine position on his bed.

"The principal of your school called me about an hour ago," Aaron replied.

"Oh yeah? What did he want?"

"He told me an interesting story about bullying, punishment, and deception."

"Really? By whom?" Dylan tossed out casually.

Faux-chuckling, Aaron replied, "That's the funny thing. It was all about you. According to him, you've been bullying a gay student so badly that you injured and traumatized him to the point where he was terrified to go back to school."

"I don't know where Jackson got this stuff, but it's all wrong."

Not to be put off, Aaron continued, "And the last five times were so bad that you were sent to Jackson's office to be physically disciplined, an option reserved for very serious offenses. In fact, the fifth time occurred soon after he got off the phone with me. Right?"

"Oh, yeah?" Dylan replied with relaxed defiance.

"Jackson said when something as rare as that occurs, he always calls the parents first to get their approval, even if they've signed a form permitting it, as we did when we enrolled you. Jackson swears he left voicemails here. They'd automatically get transferred to my cell. But I never got anything."

"That makes no sense," said Dylan, and then slipping up a little, added, "Maybe he has the wrong number."

"'Maybe he has the wrong number'? I worked at home today starting at around 1:00, and got his call in person before 3:00. He told me everything in gory detail."

"So he has the right number. So what?" said Dylan, beginning to perspire a little.

"'So what?' Are you kidding me?" said Aaron, feeling his indignation and frustration rise. "It means you really have been bullying a gay kid and got paddled five times for it. You must have deleted the messages from my voicemail boxes each time before I had a chance to check them. Clever."

"Bullshit," said Dylan, bravado concealing his realization of Aaron's accuracy.

"I don't think so. If your principal's telling the truth, there's proof on your ass. Get up, pull down your jeans and show me."

"I'm not showing you my ass, faggot," Dylan replied, a threatening edge in his voice.

"What did you just call me, you little shit? We took you in to give you a better life, and you throw the worst slur at me that a gay man can hear?! Take the damn pants down now or I'll do it for you!"

"Just try and I'll say you tried to rape me," Dylan shouted.

"You fucker!" Aaron yelled as he lunged at the boy, lifting him off the bed, ripping down his jeans, and swinging him around, all so fast that Dylan had no time to resist or even object. He'd never seen Aaron like this and now he was scared. Sure enough, even with his briefs still on, it was obvious that he had been punished. A few bruises were slightly visible outside the edges of his underpants.

Furious, Aaron growled, "Do you want to take them down or should I?!"

"I'll do it," replied a defeated Dylan. Reluctantly, he peeled down his shorts to reveal a light red, blistered ass with small bruises where the edges of the paddle had hit, and faded marks from the previous bare-ass punishment.

Aaron yelled, "What the hell's the matter with you?! You must know this was your last chance. Jackson even told me to start looking for another school--where I'm sure it would all just repeat itself anyway. What is your problem? You've lived with a queer couple (the reclaimed slur making Dylan flinch) for almost two years, and we've put up with your shit day and night. We've ignored outrageous insults we'd never dream of taking from anyone else. We wanted to think of you as our son even though you obviously don't care about us. And then you go torment a gay classmate?! What the living fuck, Dylan?! Pull your pants up!"

Dylan was happy to comply with that last order. "Fuck, man. It was only a matter of time before you two felt satisfied enough about your `good deed' and got rid of me anyway. I'm not your son. And it's always open season on fags. So fucking send me back. Maybe I am a piece of shit. So fucking what?"

"We knew two other families threw you out. But when we saw pictures taken by the cops of what your bio-parents did to you, it broke our hearts and we wanted to make you part of ours. Do you really want to go back until you age out of the system and end up--I don't know--on the street?"

Dylan shrugged. "Who'd give a rat's ass if I did? You don't love me. No one can, and I don't want anyone to."

"Then why did you even bother to stay and make our lives hell for this long?"

Dylan didn't have an answer for that one, so he just looked at Aaron, expressionless.

"I see. You challenge everyone to love you and sabotage it so no one ever does. And then, you win, huh?" Aaron asked, with disbelief.

"Shit, man. What are you talking about?" knowing exactly what Aaron was saying.

"Don't bullshit me," Aaron said levelly. "You're a smart kid and you know what I'm saying. You deliberately fuck with people who care for you before they can reject you. It's sad and certainly your twisted bio-parents' fault. I don't think you hate queer people. I think you bullied Richard--Jackson told me his name--because it was an easy way to get the kind of attention that made you feel something besides rage, even if it's just pain."

Dylan knew that Aaron was right. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Your hateful parents made you think they cared about you only if they hurt you. And that's why you got Jackson to paddle your ass five times--bare the last two times."

"So what if that's true? What are you going to do about it?" Dylan repeated.

"What you did to Richard to get punishment attention from Jackson means that abuse is all you understand. It made you feel, I don't know, `real,' right?"

"Maybe," Dylan admitted.

"But it also hurt, the last two punishments probably a lot, right? It's like you only feel normal if you're being hurt."

Dylan lowered his head. "I suppose," he confessed softly with some embarrassment.

"So it would make you happy if we were monsters like your bio-parents?" Aaron asked, incredulous.

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that," answered Dylan.

"I would," said Aaron.

Dylan had a strange facial expression now. Aaron thought he read in it a combination of excitement and terror. "So," Aaron continued, "in a traditional' model, if a kid is spanked at school, he'd get at least double that amount at home, for the misbehavior and the shame it heaped on the family. For your cover-up, you'd get even more punishment. It's stupid and barbaric, but typical in countless families. They see it as care and love' from father to son. You got Jackson to replace the real abuse from your bio-parents. When did it occur to you that getting whacked by the principal was the only way you'd feel cared for?"

Dylan took a moment to put it all together in his mind, and hesitantly answered, "I guess I've thought about it for months. Fucking Richard up seemed like an easy way to get under Jackson's skin and over his desk."

Aaron sighed. "But today, you found me home and got caught. We're Jewish and our people haven't beaten kids for generations. But if that's what it takes for you to believe we care, maybe five home spankings reflecting the five you got at school will do it. Jay's away until late Sunday, so it's on me." Aaron knew it didn't fall within Jay's abilities anyhow.

Of course, Aaron still had his spanking gear. The Jokari paddle, rulers, and heavy oval hairbrush were in the bottom dresser drawer along with long-unworn short shorts and obsolete political-slogan T-shirts. The beloved heavy belt--more a strap, really--hung in the back of his closet.

"Wait there a second," Aaron said to Dylan as he went to retrieve the gear. Looking at the sting-y Jokari paddle, he smiled and mused, "Who the hell plays Jokari anyway?"

Back in Dylan's room, he placed the hairbrush, paddle, rulers, and belt on the desk against the wall next to the door. "Since you seem to want it, I'm going to start right now. You've already been punished on your bare ass, so we will start that way. Take down your jeans and briefs again, and lie over my lap."

Dylan reflexively answered, "No!" Aaron instinctively grabbed the belt and whacked Dylan hard across his jeans-covered ass. Dylan yelled "Ow!"

"Is that how you reacted to Jackson's paddle?" inquired Aaron.

"He didn't hit that hard but I guess so," Dylan responded, a little self-conscious.

"Well, I guess there's going to be some noise around here for the next few days. Now, do what I said!"

Resigned and suddenly feeling oddly at peace, Dylan undid and lowered his jeans and white briefs below his knees. He stood in front of Aaron, holding his hands in front of his crotch, partly out of a quaint modesty and partly because the belt whack and the very act of taking down his pants in front of another person had caused slight arousal. Smirking to himself, Aaron thought, "just like a video" and roughly yanked away Dylan's hands. Aaron had no wish to embarrass Dylan and did not comment on his swelling penis, but he did make a mental note.

"Now, this is going to be a long operation. The punishment over my lap will be preliminary to the real spankings which will each double Jackson's latest number of strokes, but harder. And I will add ten strokes to each for your deceptions. Got that?"

Dylan looked at Aaron with an indignant scowl.

Aaron responded coolly to Dylan's facial expression, "You're getting off easy. I could justify tripling the number of extra strokes for deleting my voicemails and for your disgusting behavior towards Jay and me for a year and a half."

Dylan's expression immediately changed to one of regret and compliance. He nodded.

"Good," Aaron replied. "We'll go from milder to heavier, like you got from Jackson over the last month, but a lot stronger and with... variations."

Dylan winced at that last word.

Chapter 3: First Punishment

Aaron sat on the edge of the bed, facing the door. It was the only real choice, since the other side and the head of the bed were against walls, and the foot of the bed wasn't adequate. "Get over my lap."

Dylan started to comply but Aaron interrupted: "The other way. You know I'm right-handed."

It felt strange to have his foster son's naked buttocks over his lap and his penis between his thighs, but Aaron remembered what he had to do. Aaron placed his right leg over both of Dylan's to keep them from moving. Dylan supported himself with his left forearm against the bed and right hand on the floor. Starting slowly, Aaron's hand landed the first whack on Dylan's nicely rounded, red, right ass cheek, making the first of many slapping sounds to come and leaving a handprint over a sore area blistered in the shape of the principal's paddle. Dylan winced slightly and expelled a quiet breath.

The first smack was immediately followed by another, this to the left cheek, similarly blistered, and then a third, fourth, fifth, each firmer than the last until the desired strength of Aaron's smacks was achieved at about the twelfth slap. The sting on Dylan's ass was not too bad despite having been punished earlier: Jackson, never having spanked a student, was reluctant to apply too much force. Dylan also felt the effects of Aaron's stinging slaps in his hardening dick. In all, Aaron inflicted about a hundred smacks to Dylan's buttocks before his hand started to tire, reddening and stinging almost like Dylan's ass. Dylan cried out very little; he just grimaced and writhed a bit during the hand spanking. Aaron was correct that Dylan took a degree of satisfaction from this type of contact. It was time for a more serious implement.

Aaron picked up the Jokari paddle and massaged Dylan's now-redder, hot, blistered butt cheeks with his left hand before applying the paddle at some force. Apparently, this was closer to what Dylan expected: he gasped and, so Aaron thought, purred slightly. Ten hard smacks later, Aaron could swear the boy was close to being fully hard. Aaron continued bringing the Jokari paddle down for about five minutes, waiting a few seconds between strokes, uneven and unpredictable numbers of whacks to each buttock before moving to the opposite cheek.

Dylan let out little yelps inconsistently. Aaron delivered 40 strokes and then switched to the heavier 18" wooden ruler for increased concentration of impact, delivering another, more stinging, 40. Dylan's ass, raw from the principal's paddling, Aaron's hand spanking and Jokari paddle, was now a darker red, stripes from the ruler adding to the recent paddle marks. Despite his obvious discomfort, Dylan taunted, "That the best you got?"

"We're just getting started," Aaron admonished, to Dylan's chagrin and perhaps delight. "You may stand up and rub your backside for a moment, and then, get back over my lap." Dylan got up, his face flushed as he attempted to hide his nearly hard penis.

With Dylan back over, Aaron decided that the flat side of the hairbrush would be his next choice (noting his familiar progression of implements). Knowing that it would really hurt, he held Dylan's legs more firmly, and told him, "If you swear, I'll go back to the beginning. If you try to protect your ass with your hand, I'll go back to the beginning. You got that?"

Dylan, still surly and defiant, responded "Yes, sir," drawing out the second word in an insolent drawl that made Aaron feel an anger he immediately suppressed. Anger turned discipline into abuse, the last thing Aaron wanted to do.

Deciding on a nominal sixty strokes with the brush, Aaron began modestly. Again, Dylan taunted, "That the best you got?"

Aaron replied, "Oh, I'll show you what I got," realizing that slowly working up to the appropriate level of force was a waste of time with this kid.

So he repeated the first stroke at a level of strength that made Dylan cry out, "Shit, man, that hurt."

Amused, Aaron replied, "That's the idea, in case you forgot."

The hairbrush spanking began in earnest. Aaron administered the strokes hard, as before leaving space between them for the pain to fully register, striking in unpredictable quantities before turning his attention to the other cheek. Not unlike the cane, the hairbrush pushes the blood away from the whacked area, turning it white briefly; then in a few seconds, the blood rushes back, bringing the full measure of pain, the brush's oval imprint red, then bruised and blistered like the paddle. Dylan cried out with some anger in his voice after each blow.

After the twentieth blow, Dylan exclaimed, "Fuck!" and Aaron reminded him of the rule: expletives meant a fresh start, which is exactly what Aaron did. As the spanking progressed, Dylan's cries became less expressions of resentment and more those of pain, breaking down his arrogant veneer. After about forty whacks, Dylan's cries became quieter but shakier. Principal Jackson had certainly never punished him like this. At fifty, Dylan moved his right hand to protect his sore butt. Aaron caught it and forcibly held it behind Dylan's back.

"You know the rule. Back to the beginning."

No longer aroused, voice breaking, Dylan entreated, "No, please, Aaron. I can't take it."

Although Aaron was a sexual spanker, real discipline didn't fall within that purview, and he had no wish for the experiment to conclude with Dylan fearing or hating him, so he compromised. "Okay, Dylan. You've taken seventy strokes--fifty plus one restart--and I'm no monster. For breaking the rule, I'll just take it back to number 40."

While disappointed that Aaron hadn't fully chickened out, Dylan was still relieved and replied, "Thank you, sir," that last word pointedly spoken with no impertinence. Aaron knew he was making some progress.

Back to stroke 40, Aaron continued to lay on with the same fervor and unpredictability. By the time he had reached stroke 50 a second time, Dylan was crying "Ow!" in a slightly tearful voice at every blow, the hairbrush spanking continuing to its conclusion. Both of Dylan's ass cheeks were a uniform red and blistered. He had taken 90 strokes from the heavy hairbrush remarkably well (the original sixty plus the two restarts). Aaron pulled up Dylan's briefs and jeans without any gentleness, the friction of the material rubbing against his sore ass causing additional pain, and permitted him to stand.

After getting up with some effort, Dylan touched his sore butt but rubbed it delicately through his clothes, anything more vigorous making it worse. His face and moist eyes betrayed his contrition. He looked relieved until Aaron reminded him: "That was the warm-up to the first spanking. Remember, I told you that home spankings following school punishment were traditionally at least twice as long and much harder. You can relax for twenty minutes, and then we'll continue."

The boy removed his sneakers; lying prone, he carefully lowered his jeans and briefs to his knees and gingerly rubbed his hot, painful buttocks. Aaron had gone to the kitchen where he extracted two cold packs from the freezer, wrapping them in small towels, and returned to Dylan's room.

"That was never twenty minutes!" cried a panicked Dylan.

"Relax. I just went to get some cold packs for you to put on your ass before we start again," Aaron reassured him.

"Oh. Thanks, Aaron," enormous relief in Dylan's voice.

Aaron left the room again and Dylan lay on his stomach, applying the cold packs to his red, blistered butt cheeks. That first round had confused him. He had never received non-abusive, rational discipline from someone who claimed to care about him. He didn't know whether to trust Aaron or not. His buttocks burned but that only added intensity to his almost painfully stiff erection, which he needed to relieve before Aaron returned. Getting into a kneeling posture and holding the cold packs in place with his left hand, he jacked off with his right, coming explosively in under a minute.

Dylan continued mulling over his thoughts, his ass feeling a lot better, when twenty-five minutes had elapsed. Aaron decided on a little extra recovery time; Dylan wasn't sure if he had done it deliberately or not. Aaron entered the room and sat in the desk chair, turning it to face Dylan, still prone on his bed.

"Dylan, the main part of your spankings will be with a belt. You'll get sixty strokes, twice what Jackson gave you with the paddle today plus ten."

"That seems to be `traditional'," Aaron thought, slightly amused.

"Remove all your clothes and lie on your stomach at the edge of the bed with your legs off the end and your toes touching the floor. Stack two pillows under your groin to raise your butt." The official quality in Aaron's voice was new to Dylan; he had only heard Aaron speak with passion and expression. It was slightly chilling. Aaron had planned that neutral delivery to prevent alarming or frightening the boy, though it didn't have quite the desired effect. Dylan made no response; he removed his decorative red socks, expensive distressed jeans, T-shirt, and white briefs, following the rest of the instructions precisely.

It's not as though Aaron hadn't seen his foster son nude before, but he was pleased at how Dylan had filled out, how his musculature had developed, and how good he looked at nearly seventeen, especially compared to the skinny 15-year-old waif they'd taken in. The improvements were all the result of his and Jay's tireless care.

Aaron picked up his trusty thick belt and doubled it, giving it a little snap (he thought dramatic snapping would have inspired either laughter or terror in the boy). But it was just the look of the belt, seen from the corner of his eye as he lay with his ass so exposed, that panicked Dylan. He returned his head to its position directly in front of him, resting it on his arms, and shut his eyes.

"This is going to be bad," Dylan thought. His assessment was not incorrect. The heavy belt could inflict enormous pain, even damage, if wielded at full strength. It was different from whacking Dylan's young ass at full force with the other tools. So Aaron would modify his belt strokes even if Dylan resorted to the same "That the best you got?" taunt.

Aaron needn't have worried. The first blow was delivered firmly, with the belt doubled. Although that made the strokes heavier, the edges wouldn't cause undue bruising. There was no taunt from Dylan. On the contrary, he cried out with some shock, and the moderate stroke left a dark 2" stripe that swelled a bit on his already tender buttocks. For a moment, Aaron wondered what his logic had gotten him into during a non-sexual spanking situation. But there was no turning back now. He merely said, "One."

He continued to announce the numbers after each stroke. The second, third, fourth, and fifth strokes duplicated the first in force, appearance on Dylan's ass and his reaction which, however, contained no further shock, but simply acknowledgment of the sting. Aaron was especially careful with his aim; he did know a thing or two about belting, after all: too high and he could hit the coccyx at the base of the spine; too low, and he'd hit the so-called "sit spot," the area where the buttocks join the upper thighs, more delicate, much less fleshy, thus more painful when struck.

After a dozen strokes, Aaron felt that the boy's modest and consistent reactions indicated the desirability of increased vigor. He acted accordingly, bringing the belt down harder and more swiftly. Though he never would strike Dylan's young skin with the heavy implement at full force, Dylan's "Owww!" was pretty telling. "Thirteen," Aaron announced routinely.

He continued at this level for another dozen strokes, at which point Dylan yelled, "Take it easy, Aaron!"

Aaron replied, between strokes, "That's not your decision, Dylan. This is well-earned punishment."

"But I already got twenty-five from Jackson's paddle under two hours ago," Dylan pleaded.

"That's why these are well-earned," Aaron replied, matter-of-factly.

Aaron again increased the intensity of the remaining six strokes, Dylan crying out after each. At this halfway point, with Dylan panting and groaning, Aaron told him, "You may rub your butt," which Dylan did with sweaty, slightly trembling hands. Aaron silently reflected, "What am I doing? This is not sexual," but he couldn't help noticing his own wholly inappropriate arousal. "This is nuts. I'm his foster parent!" he thought. "But I have to stand by my word: Dylan needs this, and I can't let him think I was insincere."

With the same force, Aaron started again with stroke 31. He carried on to 45. Dylan made no audible sound. Then Aaron saw that Dylan had his lips firmly pressed against his arm to mute his cries, and realized that Dylan's upper body was convulsing slightly at each stroke. Even though Aaron did not go full-force, Dylan was crying.

Absurdly, all Aaron could think of was a stanza from Gilbert & Sullivan's Ruddigore: "But duty, duty must be done; The rule applies to everyone, And painful though that duty be, To shirk the task were fiddle-de-dee."

He took a deep breath to steady himself and struck the next blow.

"Forty-six," he said mechanically.

And 47. And 48. And 49... He'd completed the promised sixty strokes, despite Dylan's stifled cries, his writhing body, and his buttocks quivering beneath his belt. Aaron never wanted to see Dylan's buttocks crimson, swollen with blisters and welts. In a consensual sexual setting with someone Aaron's age, it would have been exciting, but here it was distressing. "What would my strap have done to him at full capacity?!" Aaron asked himself. The spanking was rough for Dylan's teenage ass, though Aaron was aware that punishments in British schools of the past were carried out with far greater force, using harsher implements--cane and birch, even on much younger boys, often causing bleeding.

"It's all over for today, Dylan" Aaron said, his voice cracking unintentionally. The boy was ashamed to move his head; he didn't want Aaron to see his tears. Aaron's attempted comforting touch was instantly rebuffed.

Chapter 4: Apprehensions & Inventions

"Did I achieve anything but pain?" Aaron wondered. He raced down to the kitchen and grabbed two fresh cold packs, leaving them on Dylan's nightstand. Then he grabbed the belt, brush, rulers, paddle, and left the room quickly. "Four more of these?!" he thought. It didn't occur to Aaron that he had made a breakthrough, that he was not a monster. Dylan just wasn't yet ready to grant Aaron the trust for which he had hoped.

At length, Dylan's breathing returned to normal and his tears stopped. He replaced the pillows and himself in their usual orientations on the bed and reached for the two fresh cold packs without bothering to wrap them. He soon realized his mistake: they were sticking to his painfully tender ass and he let out a cry. He got up and retrieved the towels from the earlier, now room-temperature, packs, wrapping them around the new ones. It was about 5:50. Dylan soothed his battered ass as best he could, and then fell asleep on his stomach, thinking, "Maybe Aaron does give a shit."

Jay's gig was a period band in Seattle; he was directing a Venetian program and playing a solo concerto attributed to Albinoni. It was 3pm PDT and the first rehearsal of the day had just finished when his phone vibrated. Aaron was on the other end, of course, who related what had happened since they last spoke. He sounded upset. "You know how I feel about spanking as punishment. I've never done this before."

Jay replied, "I know. I know. But maybe you've hit on something (instantly regretting his choice of words). Calm down. You were correct that in most cultures, this is the norm--hell, even out here on the west coast. Maybe we can get through to him and make him into a mensch. And from what you've told me, this is probably cathartic for him."

"Maybe," replied Aaron. He was still anxious and felt potential tears so he cut the conversation short, saying, "I have to hang up now."

After he'd relaxed, Aaron went about getting dinner ready. He was no first-class chef like his husband but he managed. He'd defrosted a chicken that morning. He preheated the oven, and stuffed diced garlic and fragrant fresh rosemary inside the bird after he'd basted it in olive oil. A multi-greens salad and jasmine rice would complete the meal, followed by fruit and sherbet.

Dylan slept until just after 7:40pm, which was perfect timing for dinner. Aaron was still concerned that he might have been been wrong and had further traumatized the kid; his face betrayed that apprehension. Dylan ran down the stairs and put the four tepid cold packs back in the freezer, to be retrieved after dinner when they had refrozen.

Seeing Aaron's face, he asked, "What's the matter?"

Aaron didn't answer but asked instead, "Are you okay?"

"My ass is a little sore but I'm fine," Dylan replied, with what Aaron correctly perceived as unaccustomed cheeriness.

"You know, the arrangement is for four more of those."

"I know," Dylan responded. He cast his eyes downward, but not for the reason Aaron assumed and was causing him inner turmoil. Insightful as he was, Aaron didn't pick up that Dylan was beginning to see how he had hurt Aaron, how he had mistreated the couple for almost two years. The pain of the spankings couldn't compare.

Not wanting to seem indecisive, but hoping to mitigate the punishments' severity, Aaron asserted, "I'm going to streamline this. There are four more sessions, but I'll leave out the preliminaries with the paddle, ruler, and hairbrush. The rest will be `traditional': sixty with the belt, followed by a hundred with my hand. It's too time-consuming otherwise. Besides, I can't work from home tomorrow so I won't get back until 5:00."

Aaron was quite right when he said that Dylan was a "smart kid." Dylan immediately recognized that Aaron was feeling the truth in the old saw, "This hurts me more than it hurts you." But instead of expressing derision or feeling contempt when Aaron modified the punishment, as he would have done in the past, Dylan felt a sympathy he hadn't really known before, a warmth that exceeded the heat he felt on his blistered butt.

"Sure, I'll just take the belt and hand," he said quietly.

Dinner went well. Aaron had placed a soft throw pillow from the sofa on Dylan's chair so sitting in relative comfort would be possible. The chicken had come out perfect and they actually enjoyed eating together. Afterwards, Dylan said he had homework to do, and Aaron loaded the dishwasher. He was calm but a sudden realization worried him: four more spankings and tomorrow was Friday. He wanted to finish before Monday, which meant that on one day, Dylan would have to be punished twice. "Dylan must have figured it out too, and we'll have to discuss it. Not tonight though," Aaron thought.

After finishing his homework, Dylan listened to a concerto by Legrenzi--which Jay happened to be rehearsing at that moment 3000 miles away--while he iced down his ass again. When Aaron came upstairs, Dylan saw his uneasy expression: "Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine," Aaron replied encouragingly, if not quite truthfully. He went to hug Dylan goodnight, and while the boy didn't stiffen and did offer a return hug, it seemed half-hearted to Aaron. "Better than nothing," came to mind. He had to keep himself from inquiring about Dylan's backside, and took a Valium to sleep. Dylan, on the other hand, slept like a rock.

The next morning, Dylan realized that the cold packs had really helped a good deal, and he made sure to tell Aaron. They ate a light breakfast together, saying little. Then, each was off to his respective daytime destination.

Dylan, as noted, was a terrific student; he was also an excellent swimmer like Aaron, and very musical as well. Since moving in with Aaron and Jay, he'd taken piano lessons. It was second nature to him, and by now, he was playing in a variety of styles with fluency and enthusiasm. Maybe it was Jay's inadvertent influence, but he was especially drawn to early 18th-century music, playing Bach, Handel, and Scarlatti as though the music had been written for him, albeit on the modern piano. In truth, he longed to play the harpsichord. He would be ready soon. Like the 18th-century composers, he was also a crackerjack improviser. He`d advanced out of all the offered music theory courses and was studying 18th-century counterpoint on his own.

None of this had ever been the problem. It was his attitude, his arrogance, his seeming cruelty that so upset his teachers and the principal, especially in a private school of Quaker origin. The friends he made all admired but feared him; at any moment, he could say something so caustic that they would ache for a week. But today, no one recognized him. He was jokey, jovial, positive, and fun. Stephen Jackson wondered if he was concerned about expulsion after yesterday's discipline, and whether he would revert to his usual toxic self soon. Time would tell.

Knowing that Aaron wouldn't be home until 5:00, Dylan stayed at school, found a practice room with a cushioned piano bench, and improvised suites and fugues for ninety minutes before taking the bus home, arriving after Aaron--who'd already been thinking about the forthcoming double spanking.

Aaron's brilliant graphic design skills attracted a large number of wealthy commercial clients. He worked well today but was preoccupied; even his colleagues noticed. He was concerned that long spankings repeated with such frequency would be too painful for Dylan's youthful skin.

During his lunch break, he researched anesthetic and antiseptic lotions on-line. One seemed to be consistently and highly recommended. Amazon was out of stock, but Aaron loathed Amazon anyway for the miserable treatment of its employees. He eventually found an on-line drugstore that carried the item; the heftier price didn't matter. He called them rather than trusting a cyber purchase, and inquired whether he could have it delivered to his home today. The answer was affirmative. The additional $25 shipping charge--almost twice the cost of the product itself--again was of no importance.

At 3pm, his colleague Charlie Miles noticed how fidgety Aaron had been today and said so: "Aaron, you obviously have something on your mind. It's Friday anyway so why don't you take off early?"

That was all Aaron needed to hear. With a pleasant but perfunctory, "Have a nice weekend," he was out the door. He got home over an hour before Dylan.

Aaron was surprised when Dylan walked in at 5:00. "Jay's away, and I knew you wouldn't be home, so I stayed and improvised at the piano until 4:30."

"I got home early," Aaron responded.

With Dylan appearing over an hour later than usual, Aaron was worried that the boy dreaded the second part of their arrangement. He was pleased that was not the case and was delighted to see Dylan. Then he remembered what he had to do.

Chapter 5: Second Punishment

Dylan was completely calm about the whole thing, while Aaron remained nervous. They walked up to his room together. This time, Aaron was prepared with four cold packs that Dylan had replaced in the freezer before leaving for school, kept frozen in a small cooler and wrapped in thinner material to be more effective--as well as the belt.

As soon as they reached Dylan's room, Aaron repeated what he'd said the previous evening: "Belt followed by hand spanking only."

"I know," Dylan replied, as he calmly arranged the bed to resemble yesterday's punishment configuration, leaving room for Aaron to sit during the last part, and methodically removing his clothes. In a strange way, that calm efficiency was as puzzling for Aaron as it was reassuring. He still didn't get that he'd made the right deduction.

Picking up the belt and doubling it, Aaron began the punishment, counting each stroke as before. The belt cracked against Dylan's still slightly sore buttocks at the same level of strength as yesterday's conclusion. It was tougher for Dylan, but he summoned all his self-composure not to cry out, feeling Aaron's growing tension. "Anyway," he thought, as he grimaced at each stinging stroke, "how would it look if Aaron dropped dead of a heart attack while I'm lying here nude with a swollen red ass?!"

Aaron tried to imagine that this was not his foster son whom, he had to admit, he adored, but Jay or a hot hook-up from long ago. That illusion kept him going through the first thirty strokes, even as Dylan's sore ass became redder, the welts more visible. At the twenty-fifth stroke, the boy's self-control was exhausted and he cried out pitiably following each successive blow.

After thirty, both guys were perspiring and shaking from adrenaline and endorphins. Aaron took the opportunity for a ten-minute break, over twice the time it had taken to deliver the first thirty strokes. He knelt and gingerly touched Dylan's tender backside with his cool, perspiring hands, massaging it slowly. The boy didn't wince so he knew he wasn't causing any additional pain.

But the ten minutes passed quickly and it was time for the completion of the second punishment. Dylan's attitude had been changing since the first spanking, and he now felt that this was a just reckoning for the amount of suffering he'd caused others, especially the two men who were interested solely in his well-being. Aaron just knew that he needed to be true to his word. He started up again.

"Thirty-one," he announced, still trying to imagine Jay or an old flame writhing under his lash. It worked for a while, and he even started to get an erection, but then snapped back to the reality that the cries of pain he heard were uttered by his foster son.

It was over soon, in maybe three minutes. Aaron now sat on the bed, pushing the pillows aside, in readiness for the closing hand spanking. His ass hot and throbbing, Dylan climbed unsteadily over Aaron's lap. Aaron proceeded to slap Dylan's aching butt 100 times, as he had the day before. The spanking, applied with his entire body naked, held no sexual thrill for Dylan now, each slap radiating a vibrating, burning sting. He whimpered throughout. Interestingly, the hand spanking made the welts created by the belt coalesce visually, giving Dylan's buttocks a less contrasted appearance.

Aaron then threw off the lid of the cooler and grabbed two cold packs, placing them on his boy's buttocks. Dylan was groaning slightly, but he felt somehow free and cared for, though he was not yet ready to articulate it entirely. This time, Aaron waited until the cold packs had lost their cooling properties on both sides so he could replace them. It took about twenty minutes, after which Aaron gently rubbed his foster son's cooled but red ass. Dylan thought he could feel Aaron tense up during the soothing process. That seemed more like punishment than the spanking.

Aaron knew that Dylan needed to sleep for a while: "Rest now and we'll order pizza or something when you get up." Dylan fell asleep almost at once. It was now 6:15.

Aaron had just finished softly rubbing Dylan's temporarily cool butt cheeks when the doorbell rang. It was his special delivery. He took the defrosted cold packs and returned them to the freezer. Aaron mused about using the new stuff now but held off, as the cold packs seemed to be doing their job; Dylan was asleep; and really, Aaron was holding back, certainly compared to consensual erotic spankings of the past. The new lotion would come in handy for the upcoming sessions.

It was the wrong time to call Jay who was doubtless in rehearsal, so Aaron tried to occupy himself by reading, watching a film he'd seen a dozen times, and finally, munching on seedless green grapes. It was after 8:00 when he heard Dylan's door open, and his heart sped up a little. As his boy came down the stairs, Aaron asked, "Pizza, Chinese, Thai, what do you think?"

Dylan considered for a few seconds and replied "maybe Thai, but not too spicy." Aaron's mind immediately jumped to the possible reason for "not too spicy": sitting on a hard toilet seat any more than necessary could be quite painful after two days of punishment. It also gave him an idea.

First, he suggested, "Garlic Chicken and Pad Thai okay?"

"Sounds good--and Thai rolls," Dylan replied.

Pad Thai, the ultimate "comfort food" let Aaron's mind linger on the word "comfort." "This is just too much," he thought.

The new idea he had involved Ace Hardware. "I'll order the food and go pick it up," he told Dylan. And while doing so, he'd make a detour to Ace and buy a cushioned toilet seat for the bathroom Dylan used. Brilliant. He placed the order and bounded out of the house, given that time was passing and Ace closed at 9:00 that evening. Fortunately, he got there in time and they had what he needed. A relief. He picked up the food and hurried home.

Not wanting to embarrass the boy--well, any more than he already had, Aaron said, "Dylan, I have a small chore I need to do first." He ran upstairs, Ace purchase still in its bag, and proceeded to install it. Then he thought of something else: "After today's session, maybe a throw pillow wouldn't be adequate for Dylan to eat in comfort." So while walking downstairs, his chore completed, he casually suggested to Dylan that the ancients considered it luxurious to "eat reclining," as one was supposed to do at Passover. "Should we try? You take the sofa. I'll recline on the floor next to you."

Aaron thought he was being oh-so-subtle, but Dylan saw at once that Aaron was trying to conceal his anxiety behind a funky proposal. Dylan realized how much he was beginning to like Aaron and said, "Sure. That sounds kinda cool." So that's what they did. Aaron set up several low tray tables for convenience and they reclined on their sides while feasting on Thai takeout.

After dinner, knowing that Dylan was in no condition to go out with friends (not that he'd ever been keen on it anyway), Aaron suggested a BluRay or DVD, and asked Dylan to pick something. After going through the sizable collection of discs, he made what seemed to Aaron a peculiar choice: the cute but dumb 2009 gay rom-com Eating Out 3: All You Can Eat. This from a kid who had terrorized a gay classmate?

It was fun to watch after so many years, and it did have the hot Chris Salvatore and the adorable Daniel Skelton in their film debuts, as well as Mink Stole and the late Leslie Jordan. When it was finished, Dylan made a comment that perplexed Aaron even more: "I'm glad they got together in the end."

It was time to talk about the weekend. Aaron took the daring step of stroking Dylan's hair but Dylan didn't stiffen or push him away. "You know there are three more spankings and only two more days. I want this over before the week begins. Do you think you can take two on Saturday or Sunday?"

Dylan grew serious, hearing the discomfort in Aaron's voice. "Saturday would be better," he said, very low.

"It's already nearly midnight, so maybe we should go to bed," Aaron suggested. Then, just to be sure, he added, his face reddening slightly, "And I'll bring the newly frozen cold packs back in case you need them. I left the cooler in your room."

"I know," said Dylan gently. Aaron was starting to feel as though he was the one being punished. He didn't attempt a hug; the possibility of a rejection now would be too devastating.

They went up to their respective rooms. While Dylan was brushing his teeth, he noticed the new toilet seat so stealthily installed. "Maybe caring can take other forms," he thought. As it happened, Dylan's buttocks had started to feel like fiery mounds again. He wondered if he could endure three more sessions. He repeated the steps taken by Aaron a few hours earlier, removing the frozen, cloth-wrapped cold packs from the cooler and applying them until his blazing ass took the freeze out of them. He then left the two tepid packs on the desk.

It took Dylan longer to fall asleep than before. Aaron, restless, heard the sounds coming from his room and knew what was going on. When it was silent, he waited for twenty minutes before creeping into Dylan's room to grab the warm cold packs and returned them to the freezer. He waited for another ninety minutes before they seemed usable again. Just as quietly, he replaced them in the cooler so all four would be available to Dylan, with a note on it to that effect. He never imagined that Dylan was still awake. Aaron left, knowing he would probably need another Valium. Dylan started to cry.

Chapter 6: Third & Fourth Punishments

Saturday morning arrived, and with it, some trepidation in the minds of both the house's residents. After the second application of cold packs, Dylan had slept through the night but awoke with his ass on fire, though not as bad as he imagined it might be; those additional cold packs Aaron had left in the dark were more than welcome. When they were warm, Dylan replaced all of them in the freezer.

Aaron awoke with his stomach churning. Again, Gilbert & Sullivan errantly flitted through his head: "The Slave of Duty"--subtitle for The Pirates of Penzance. The two ate breakfast in silence. Dylan sat on a plush down pillow. Aaron saw him wince. Aaron winced.

They spent the rest of the morning talking, a largely unheard-of event since Dylan's arrival. The boy talked about music, what the genres he loved had in common, and about the stupidity of rigid adherence to the written notes when that was considered bad taste at the time the music was conceived. Aaron talked about the queer struggles, failures, and triumphs of the past few decades, and what it took to achieve the latter, perhaps making Dylan understand him better.

The elephant in the room went undiscussed until nearly noon when they had to confront a day with two spankings. Aaron, clearly rattled, suggested making the first session an earlier one to get it out of the way. Dylan agreed.

The pair walked up the stairs with a deliberate air, and Dylan repeated the preparations of the day before, though perhaps a bit more slowly. Aaron made certain he'd brought all the newly frozen cold packs and the new jar of lotion. He went to his room to get a pillow for Dylan's head so he wouldn't have to rest it on his arms, which could then be held forward in a relaxed position. Before they began, Dylan bit the pillow hard against the forthcoming pain. Aaron ran his hands oh-so-very-gently across Dylan's swollen buttocks and could feel the welted ridges. Before he began applying and counting the strokes, he took two cold packs out of the chest so they'd be immediately accessible.

Aaron struck Dylan's swollen ass as hard as he had on Friday, the first few strokes perhaps inadvertently harder before he gained full control. Then he decided to let Dylan count the strokes and choose the timing: "Call out the number and when you're ready for the next stroke, say `Ready, Aaron,' before I whack your ass again. I'll let you know if you've miscounted and repeat the stroke."

It was both a good and a bad idea: good because Dylan could decide when he could endure more pain, bad because it made the punishment more protracted. But ultimately, it seemed to work, and happily, Dylan never miscounted. Aaron was calmer, and Dylan's cries were less distressing. After thirty, they took a break, longer than yesterday's ten minutes. Dylan got up, walked around stiffly, and carefully massaged his butt.

Before they restarted, Aaron asked, "Are you sure you can take the rest?"

"I'm sure," replied Dylan, though that was partly bravado. "Let's do it." Dylan's counting was again accurate, but he needed noticeably more time between strokes, and his cries were more pronounced.

The hand spanking followed, Dylan writhing, drawing sharp breaths between slaps, and whimpering more distressingly than he had previously. After Aaron applied the cold packs, he could see that Dylan was still in some pain. Aaron opened the jar of the new anesthetic/antiseptic lotion, fervently hoping that it lived up to its good press. He applied the slippery, cool stuff to Dylan's scarlet, ridged backside with all the tenderness he could muster. Dylan didn't groan or even move. But only when he said, in a remarkably steady voice, "That feels good, like the pain is disappearing," did Aaron relax.

Aaron hadn't used the belt at full force, but Dylan's young flesh was very raw. While Aaron didn't want to lose Dylan's trust, he was worried: when Dylan moved into a normal position on the bed, Aaron observed that his ass was now uniformly swollen and deep red. He turned Dylan's head so their eyes met, took his tear-stained face in both hands, and, forcing back tears himself, blurted out, "I'm not sure I can do this anymore."

Dylan grabbed Aaron by one the arms that held his face, and said, "Only two more. I deserve them and you made a promise."

Aaron grabbed the belt and left the room, running down the stairs, tripping and banging his knee hard against the banister. "How can I go on with this?" he thought, reeling.

Dylan was not only a smart and talented kid but resilient: one had only to look at his history. And level-headed, notwithstanding previous experiences demonstrating the contrary. Yes, his buttocks had been subjected to degrees of raw pain they'd never experienced, but he was philosophical about it.

His ass was fine for a while and when it started to hurt again, Dylan applied the remaining cold packs. turning them when they started to feel warm, then rubbing his ass with more lotion, and falling asleep for three hours. He didn't blame Aaron nor think him a coward. He felt more every hour that someone could care about him.

Aaron, on the other hand, thought he might have failed, that he could lose Dylan, that he'd somehow confused his sexual pleasures with real life. He couldn't even call Jay, who would be starting a final rehearsal. Why hadn't he figured out some way of getting through to the boy other than punishment? While Dylan slept, Aaron paced. What would he say to the boy, whose thin thread of emerging confidence in him he may have ruptured? How could it be that life with him had been a nightmare but would be impossible without him?

These musings led Aaron into a minor existential crisis: that first disapproval by his mother and favorite aunt, the shaky footing of his marriage since Dylan's arrival... or was it something else? It was all too much--or not enough, he couldn't decide.

Dylan came downstairs at 4:00, wearing looser pants (chinos) and boxers underneath. "You okay?" he soberly asked Aaron, who obviously wasn't. Dylan was concerned now. The one person who might actually care about him looked deeply upset. And it was his fault. He went to Aaron and told him, "Look, it's okay. You're doing your job and I'm already better because of it. Just finish what you started. I can take it. I mean it."

"Are you sure? It's medieval, even if it's still done by millions of right-wing creeps and theocrats. How is this so different from your bio-parents' abuse?" asked Aaron.

Dylan answered, "Because they hated that I existed and used me as a punching bag and didn't give a flying fuck whether I lived or died. They made me hate everyone. You're nothing like that. Come on. You know I've done shitty things. I mean, I can't blame them for everything. The punishment feels right, and I know you've gone out of your way to lessen it. I don't think you're weak or a liar. Let's do the fourth one at bedtime."

"But is violence ever really justified?" Aaron asked.

"It's not violence. It's well-earned punishment. You called it that yourself, Aaron."

There was a decent Italian place that delivered and Aaron ordered dinner for them at 5:15. He realized that with the spanking and its disquieting repercussions, they'd both skipped lunch. Aaron felt easier now. Dinner arrived in twenty-five minutes. Dylan had satisfactory lasagna and, for some reason, Aaron ordered their Americanized Fettuccine Alfredo. He made a Greek salad with Kalamata olives and feta cheese. In some sort of weird solidarity, they both ate standing up. They laughed, and Aaron realized it was the first time he'd heard Dylan's ringing teenage laugh. He felt more at peace than he had for months.

They watched another movie, a nearly new one, brilliant and serious, called All of Us Strangers, a Japanese-style queer, surreal English film about loss and undying love. Dylan chose this one too. He lay on his side to watch it. It moved them both, each for some different and some of the same reasons. It was 9:00 and they spent a few hours talking about the movie's themes. It was turning out that they had a lot of the same concerns, acquired through different experiences. Aaron knew a good deal about Dylan, though certainly not everything, and he took the opportunity to let Dylan in on some of his life's joys and sorrows.

The time arrived for the fourth spanking. Armed with four fresh cold packs--and the belt, Aaron walked silently with Dylan to his room, where the teen made the preparations with considerable anxiety.

Even though 180 strokes already had left Dylan's tender young ass swollen and raw, all the blows had been deliberately delivered at, or near, the fleshy crest of his butt cheeks. His thighs were untouched, as was his sensitive "sit spot." Aaron decided that he would avoid the punished areas and spare Dylan the agony of more welts upon already painful swelling. He determined to belt Dylan on these fresh areas, and rapid-fire, ending the spanking quickly. Because strapping the "sit spot" could be very painful, Aaron would confine himself principally to Dylan's upper thighs, reserving only a few scattered strokes for his "sit spot."

After getting into position, his sore ass raised by pillows, Dylan steeled himself as best he could for the agony he thought was coming. Dylan determined not to stifle his yells; he knew Aaron would be fully aware of his pain anyway.

When the strokes and the count began, it was a very surprised Dylan who received them. A heavy belt on bare skin, even if applied without full force, is always painful, but not as excruciating as being struck on already raw areas. Aaron followed through with his plan fast and accurately; after all, he was a master spanker. Dylan barely had time to cry out. After the first thirty were over, Dylan's eyes were moist but his face was not streaming with tears, nor was he panting.

After the accustomed break, Aaron followed with another quick volley of hard strokes, counting from 31 to 60, on skin that was now sore, but not layered with welts, bruises, and blisters. Dylan held his breath and didn't flinch. He then lay over Aaron's lap for the hand spanking to his buttocks, during which Aaron saw Dylan suck air through his teeth, his fists clenched; it obviously hurt but perhaps no worse than it had earlier in the day.

Aaron applied the cold packs, turning them when they were warm, which took much longer this time. After Aaron applied lotion generously to the entire area punished over the last three days, Dylan, to Aaron's amazement, turned his head around and thanked him. Aaron put his arm around Dylan's shoulders but controlled his emotions. The last punishment was set for tomorrow, Sunday.

Having been placed so close together, the four spankings had been hard. Aaron lay awake trying to think of some way to get out of tomorrow's finale, or at least emend it as he'd just done. He was normally a fast thinker but it took him `til 2am to come up with the answer. It would neither cause much more pain to Dylan's exceedingly raw teenage bottom nor endanger his faith in Aaron's sincerity.

Sunday morning arrived and by about 11:00, Dylan was eating Aaron's pancakes (the only cooked breakfast he did well), sitting on a cushion in reasonable comfort. After they'd finished, Dylan, in a no-nonsense mood, inquired, "Well, when are we going to do it?" He fully expected a poorly concealed aggrieved look from his foster dad, who was obviously too nice for his own good.

But what he got was a hard, snappy retort, another question, "When do you want it?" Dylan was vaguely alarmed, and he recanted thinking that Aaron was too nice; this was closer to Aaron on Thursday afternoon. Had he become accustomed to an activity whose pain levels went from bad to unbearable--and which Dylan knew had been, and perhaps still was, recreational, consensual, and much more intense for Aaron and Jay?

"Well," Dylan said a little hesitantly, ineffectively trying to keep up whatever bravado he had left, "it's probably better sooner than later if I don't want to need bandages on my ass in school tomorrow."

"Fine," said Aaron, crisply. "We'll do it as soon as we've digested breakfast." Dylan found Aaron's casual manner even more alarming than before. Either he had embraced his inner sadist even here or he had something up his sleeve. After 240 belt strokes followed by firm hand spankings over the course of three days, Dylan finally had to admit to himself that he desperately hoped it was the latter.

Chapter 7: Final Punishment & Reconciliation

Dylan spent the next few hours in his room, lying on his left side, reading, of all things, E.M. Forster's Maurice. At 1pm, Aaron knocked on his door and Dylan invited him in. He carried the cooler, placing it near the bed, and the jar of lotion was on the nightstand.

"I think this is a good time to finish up," said Aaron. He was probably right, but Dylan didn't know what to expect, given Aaron's unruffled manner. So he slowly put a marker in the book where he had stopped reading and placed it on the nightstand near the jar of lotion. He then proceeded to ready himself for what could genuinely be beyond his pain threshold.

"So, it's a sixty with the belt, right?" asked Aaron, sunnily.

More alarmed than ever, and not turning around, Dylan answered, "R-right."

"Wrong," said Aaron. "That's not the proper punishment for today."

Dylan nearly pissed himself, he was so scared now. Had Aaron lost it?

"Get up," said Aaron in an unreadable tone. "Remember Thursday when I arranged all this?"

"Yeah."

"I said that traditional domestic spankings inflicted after school discipline were about twice as harsh as the preceding school spankings. In addition to the hand spanking, how many strokes did you get on Thursday, Dylan?"

"Sixty."

"Nope, 230."

"How do you figure?"

"I whacked you with the Jokari paddle and ruler 80 times followed by 90 with the hairbrush before the 60 with the belt. `Tradition' doesn't specify the implement. Because of the preliminaries, I over-spanked you that day. However, tradition also calls for hard implement spankings to end with hard hand spankings. I was remiss about that detail on the first day, having begun with it. So no more belting. But I think a final hand spanking would be appropriate."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"No, you don't suppose. I'm telling you that's how we're going to end. Lie over my lap."

It was then that Dylan realized the belt wasn't in the room. Aaron must have figured all this out last night. Dylan practically jumped over Aaron's lap. A hand spanking would sting on his very sore ass, but the main swellings and welts were 24 hours old; in the interim, because of last night's thigh-spanking, the cold packs, and lotioning, they'd had time to recover. Aaron surveyed the damage on Dylan's backside and concurred. He didn't even need to secure the boy's legs with one of his own, and Dylan kept his hands unclenched.

With the boy's dick between his thighs, Aaron started spanking Dylan's bare ass decisively with his hand. Dylan, feeling freer, made no attempt to stifle his yelps as he was deftly dealt 100 stinging slaps. His ass got redder but no new welts, blisters, or bruises appeared. With no preceding belt strokes, the tingling pain caused his dick, nestled between Aaron's thighs, to stiffen almost immediately, and by the final slap, he was shooting a hot load forcefully onto the floor.

Aaron gently rubbed the boy's throbbing bottom with the backs of his hands. Although he was relieved to have found a plausible reason for eschewing the bulk of the last punishment, the overall state of Dylan's buttocks was still concerning. So, with the boy still over his lap, he reached into the cooler, deliberately positioned closer, removed two cold packs, and placed them on Dylan's backside. He would continue to ice Dylan's buttocks periodically for the remainder of the day. Unless Dylan were to experience more severe pain, he'd avoid the lotion because its anesthetic effect masked the recovery's progress.

After the cold packs warmed, Dylan got up, tears streaming down his face, but not tears of pain. Aaron couldn't have been more surprised or elated when Dylan threw his arms around Aaron's neck and kissed him on the lips, as Aaron's father did unexpectedly.

"Do you love me?" Dylan asked.

"You know I do," Aaron replied, not even attempting to force back his tears. They held each other tightly for a long time.

"There's something you should know, Dad. I'm gay too. Maybe you figured that out by now. In the foster care system, you get hassled so much by other kids if you're gay that I pretended to be a homophobic straight prick, since I didn't know if I'd end up back there."

Wiping his eyes, Aaron replied, "You'll never have to go back. But you will have to earn Richard's forgiveness, though in a different way, of course." Aaron couldn't conceal a slight smirk.

Dylan agreed and continued, "You know, I won't have to wear bandages, but I think loose clothing would be good for a while. I might even start a trend."

Aaron smiled with unaffected happiness.

"So can I be your son and Jay's?" Dylan asked.

Aaron just nodded, starting to tear up again and thinking how tedious that had become.

"Maybe I should study and get bar-mitzvah'd. I mean, I'm circumcised like most American guys. That's the first step to becoming a man, in the Jewish faith, right? The second is bar-mitzvah."

"You know you're a few years late. But maybe we could find a Reconstructionist rabbi who'd go for it. After all, you are being raised by two atheist gay Jews."

"And Dad," asked Dylan earnestly. "Can I count on you for more spankings, though maybe not as hard?"

"You know I'm basically against it, but if it makes you feel more loved, sure, as long as you deserve it. But not for pleasure. If that's what you want, like Jay, you'll have to find boys to play with--which I'm sure you can," Aaron said with a grin.

"I have to think about it," said Dylan, also grinning. "I guess I won't be going swimming for a while."

"Well, that depends. If you decide that you like spanking, the redness showing at the edge of your swimsuit might attract a cute spanker your own age." They both smiled wickedly.

Jay came home late that evening, pretty jet-lagged but pleased with his reception in Seattle. Still, he was worried about Aaron after that last call. When he entered, they kissed and embraced with great affection, both getting hard at once.

"Do you love me?" Aaron asked.

"What a question! Of course!"

"Do you want to be a dad? I mean, not a foster dad, but a real one?"

Jay looked at Aaron quizzically. "Obviously there's a lot I need to know."

"Yeah, but not right now," Aaron sighed. But Aaron did explain everything after they had showered together and lay in each other's arms.

They were horny but tired enough that they just sucked and jacked each other off. They slept curled up together. It was the best Aaron had slept in a long time.

Jay was free the next day, so he stayed in bed while Aaron made sure their son breakfasted and got off to school.

"How's your butt?" he asked Dylan.

"Not bad. I iced it a while ago. He was again wearing loose beige chinos with boxers underneath. "I took the jar of lotion in case it starts to hurt while I'm at school."

They hugged and kissed each other's cheeks and lips. "Talk to Richard. Come out to him. Explain everything and ask for his forgiveness. You're both gay boys so you're brothers, you know." Aaron was such an old-fashioned gay-lib idealist.