Dear Sir,
I caught your ad in DRUMMER the other day. I've been hoping to find an ad just like yours, and when I saw it something hit me HARD right across the ass. It sounds like you and I have got quite a bit in common. I see ads all the time from guys into leather, whipping, rope, spanking, etc., but nothing like what I'm into--"busted-ass" paddling--give AND take. From your ad, I think you know what I mean. Big boards and hard licks. Right across the butt. I'm into a western scene also, jeans (501s, Wrangler) boots, etc., and there ain't nothing any better than a good, hard, solid lick across the seat of my 501s. I've got a lot of stuff to unload. There's nobody around here I can talk to about this. All my buddies are into basic butt-fucking, and our visibility in the community keeps things discrete. I like it that way. It's a "service" we perform for each other. But every now and then, this need arises in me that a good day or night with one of them can't get rid of. Like you, probably, I don't know why I have it or where it came from, but it's there. All the time. I don't think they would understand it any more than I can understand it myself. But YOU can understand it. It sure feels good talking to somebody who KNOWS what I'm talking about. Something tells me this is going to be one hell of a long letter. Grab yourself a beer--I feel like talking. I'm going to talk about things I never talked to anybody about. While you're at it, get the biggest fuckin' paddle you've got--and put it nearby, because that's the paddle I'm gonna be talking about in this letter. I've got mine--right next to this typewriter--for inspiration. I'm going to tell you the story behind this paddle, how I got it and how I got my ass busted with it. But first, I'm going to tell you a little bit about myself.
I'm a white male, age 31. I'm 6'1" tall and weigh about 170 lbs. Brown hair, blue eyes, mustache. You've probably already flipped ahead to the picture. That's me. I've always been told I was good-looking, and since I'm being totally honest in this letter, I admit that I know how to use my looks to get what I want. A shrink would probably tell me that I hide behind my looks. (Maybe that's why I like getting my butt paddled. Who knows?). But I've never had to proposition a guy for sex--they ask me. Even a couple of guys I KNEW were straight. If I sound like I've got a pretty big head, it's only because I'm trying to be as frank and straight with you as I can. I wouldn't talk like this to anyone else. Okay. I'm masculine and straight-acting and appearing. I like all sports, especially tennis and backyard football. I like running and working out with weights. To my friends and family, I'm a confirmed "bachelor". To a very few, very close male friends, I'm a damned good piece of ass. I know what to do with my dick, and I know how to handle theirs. Someday, I'll come out, probably move away and really get into this thing, but for right now, I'm pretty comfortable.
Except for tonight. Man, I'm too comfortable. I need some licks. I'd sure like to grab my ankles and get you to bust my ass for me. Bust it good. I bet you know how to bust ass. I like 'em HARD. LOUD. I like 'em to burn good. You know what I mean. Some licks hurt. But some licks .... burn. I'll bet your licks BURN, because I'll bet they're HARD. I'd like to bend over for some real butt-busters. A butt-buster is when you don't hold nothing back. It's everything you've got in back of that board. I need some licks, man. I need 'em bad.
Well, I ain't much of a substitute, but I just took this board and warmed up my ass a little. As you know, it doesn't hurt much but it helps me out sometimes to redden up my ass. It feels GOOD, and gets my dick up, but it ain't nowhere near the real thing. But with my bare, red ass in this hard, wooden chair, you might get a better letter.
As I said earlier, I don't know when it started or why. But I did attend a private, all-male military grade school, as well as a private, all-male, military boarding school in high school. In both places I was exposed to a lot of paddling.
I can remember as early as 3rd or 4th grade being scared to death of "The Paddle" myself, but whenever a buddy or a classmate would get "The Paddle," I'd get pretty excited. We had these old-fashioned raised-top wooden desks that were bolted to the floor. There weren't many classrooms, but in most of them the first desk, nearest the teacher (mostly male faculty) was kept clear. You'd bend over this desk, facing your classmates, with your butt facing the blackboard, so you could see all your classmates watching you get "The Paddle." Of course, in grade school the licks weren't anything like they were later, but in 3rd, 4th, or 5th grade, nothing hurt worse than "The Paddle." Like everyone else, I was scared to death of getting it in front of the whole class, and when it was my turn I did not enjoy it. It was not until much later that I began to enjoy and cherish the memory of those paddlings.
High school was somewhat different. Still unhappy with our school district, my folks sent me to another private, all-male military school, only this time I was a boarder. My dad was an alum, and he figured I could use the same discipline that had "molded" him. (Was he ever right!) Corporal punishment was the rule. Though I was not a problem case, there were some guys there who were too much for their parents to handle. There were very strict rules set, and if you broke them, you paid the price. Being a military school, there was a strong system of merits and demerits. But, in addition to the Commandant and the heads of the Military Dept., all of the mostly male teachers and all of the coaches had full authority to paddle--and most of them did. In those days, it was a lot simpler. There were no assault charges against teachers or coaches, no witnesses had to be present--just a lot of busted asses. It was a private school, governed by itself. I'm sure it's different now. Parents were advised of the situation and those who did not approve sent their sons elsewhere. My dad signed the letter outlining the school's stand on corporal punishment every year. If he wasn't there to keep me in line, he sure wanted the school to. He remembered. (I've got some good stories of his I'd like to tell you in a future letter.) Anyway, to put it simply, the licks got harder and were much more frequent. In addition, I was changing. With puberty rapidly underway, I was really getting into what was happening around me. It wasn't long before a mild interest in paddling turned into a raging hard-on. With that many paddles in use, it was a constant source of amusement for me. No homework? A lick, maybe two. Talking in class? Always worth at least one lick, for you AND your partner--after the first offense, double it. Those were "fun" licks. Then there was disrespect, disobedience, insolence, poor attitude, etc., which moved you into the busted ass category. Of course, there were "easy" licks from some teachers, but there were some real heavy hitters also. We knew who to behave in front of. I guess there were about twenty men at that school who hit. Of these, about five were jokes. About ten were average to hard. Two were real hard. There were three men, the Commandant, a math teacher, and a coach who were damn near brutal. The first time I bent over in front of one of them, I found out that one single lick could put tears in my eyes. These were my first "Butt-Busters." I got licks from each one of those men, and I really believe the coach was the worst. I was an athlete, so I had plenty of exposure to him. He was a young, good-natured guy, and he let us get away with a lot of shit. But there were some things he wouldn't put up with. His paddle was so fuckin' big it wouldn't fit in his desk drawer, so he kept it propped up in the corner of his office near his desk. He kept a pencil and a piece of paper in his back pocket during practice. He'd write your name down for anything from late to practice, clowning around, not paying attention, poor sportsmanship, to a stupid fumble, a wrong play, and especially--lack of effort. I was Quarterback my Junior and Senior years, so I--and a few others--bore the brunt of it. So, just about every day after practice, he'd call out names. After showers, you'd go to his office where he told each guy what he'd done wrong, how to correct it, and what would happen the next time you did it. You'd line up, and each take a turn across his desk for licks. Most days, we wore starched khaki uniforms. You could hear those licks popping off butts all over that school. If you had on Dress Blues, you'd have to raise the flaps of your coat up to your back, so that nothing was in the way. It hurt like shit, but in spite of it, everybody liked "coach" a lot. And to some guys, taking a licking from "coach" was a macho thing. To me, it was a hell of a lot more.
Finally, in college I went Greek, for many reasons. One reason, of course, was paddling. I joined the "jock" frat, and you'd better believe they hazed hard. I've got plenty of stories I could tell you, and I will in a future letter. I know that my interest in corporal punishment was with me in the beginning, but grade school and high school developed it. My college fraternity refined it. No one suspected my feelings, but I got off to it all the time. I was the typical pledge, with a red ass for most of my Sophomore year. In an era when most fraternities were unpopular, and hazing was almost eliminated to attract pledges, my frat held to a time-honored tradition. The only change made was that "two-handed" swats were illegal. But ANY swat, so long as it was delivered with only one hand, was legal. You can imagine how bad it WAS. Anyway, after a year of getting my ass busted for just about everything, I became an active, and became especially "active" in what we called "board games." In a group of jocks, even paddling was considered a sport, and there were even contests to determine who could give the hardest one-handed lick. If a pledge was not available, often a guy would seek a volunteer who'd "trade licks" with him, usually two-for-one, just so he could use his butt in the contest. I was always eager to volunteer, though careful not to look too anxious. There were plenty of late nights, we'd all get blasted on beer or grass and trade licks. HARD licks, the next morning we each found out just how hard they were. Then there were nights we'd play poker. Gambling was strictly forbidden, so we played for licks. Once again, the macho, he-man thing came out in just about everybody. I was always in it for something else, reasons of my own. I know I came across as a good sport, a dare-devil, a guy who could really give a lick, and a guy who took my licks like a man. I was popular, and nobody knew how into those licks I was.
It was fun while it lasted, and it lasted until 1975, at which time I had to graduate, leave the frat, and get to work. I had been a Pledge Master my senior year, and needless to say I enjoyed all the "Disciplinary Responsibilities" that came with that job. I was tough, but like "coach" in high school, I busted ass and was admired, well-liked and respected. I don't think I had an enemy, and the memory of busting all those healthy jocks' butts is something that keeps me company on many a lonely night. Shit--it was my job--someone had to do it.
Memories can only take you so far. I started with a home-building firm here in Texas, and here I am, 10 years later. For several years, in spite of quite a few sexual encounters of all kinds, I realized I wasn't getting what I wanted out of any relationship. I missed paddling, and every time I was with a guy, I'd think about either busting his ass or him busting mine. But I couldn't say it. I knew it was weird. My encounters with women were and still are very satisfying, but I really like rough man-to-man stuff. So I jacked off a lot, and each and every time I jacked off I'd think about a guy busting my ass. Not just a licking, but a HARD, SEVERE licking. If I wasn't doing that, I was busting his ass--HARD--like I know how to bust an ass. Every night--in my head I was getting it hard, and giving it harder. My frustration led me to a small collection of paddles and as much written material as I could find. And, I had my memories. Sometimes, I'd bend over and grab my ankles, and I'd fantasize about getting a hard paddling. It had to be HARD. Not a spanking like some fag, but a hot, fiery licking with a board. These feelings continued to grow inside me until one day, I did something about them. That is, finally, the subject of this letter. Shit, I could shoot a load right now, but I'm going to warm my ass up again instead. Warm it up good, this time.
Two summers ago, I took a week off from work and went out to Florida to see some friends. I spent a long time in the car alone and did a lot of thinking. Fortunately, I allowed myself some extra time on the way home to take the long way. My music was good, I liked the extra time to myself but I was horny. I'd driven most of the day and after I passed into Alabama, I started to look for a place to stay the night. After passing through one small town after another, I finally pulled into a Holiday Inn, someplace in Alabama, around dusk. It was a typical H.I., but it did have a gym (one Nautilus machine) and a pool. I threw on gym shorts, a tee shirt and headed for the weights. He was already there. We exchanged greetings, and he said he wouldn't mind if I joined him. He was about the best piece of ass I'd seen in many a day--just what I needed--a good long, one night stand. We talked a little, and from his southern drawl I could tell he was from around there. He said he could tell I was from Texas. He lived nearby but had a deal where be could use the weights and the pool in the evenings. I believe I told you that I know how to use what I've got, so I put it to work. I stood with my back to him, probably too close, and did some stretching exercises, glancing at him from time to time for a reaction. Before long, I got it. I could see the head of a long dick poking out of the bottom of his shorts. I didn't say anything, or even pretend to notice, for fear he'd kick my faggot ass out the door. But between the various stations on the Nautilus, I made no effort to conceal mine. He was about five years older than me, and he was somewhat taller. I'm 6'1; he was a good 6'4". He was a good-looking guy, sandy hair and deep blue eyes, and built. His build was what was fueling my hard-on; not overly-developed, but just right. Thick neck, broad shoulders, slim waist. He was lifting some major weight, gritting his teeth as he put his strength to work. All the while the head of his dick was poking out of his shorts. He was interested. I sure as hell was. He made the next move. After the workout, we each showered off and I told him I'd meet him in the coffee shop. When I entered, I saw he had on jeans, boots etc., and had a weathered western hat on the table. WESTERN--holy shit. I had on the same. I was just horny enough to do it--to ask him for it. I knew I'd never have to see him again, I needed some licks, from a guy like him. He wanted my ass, I could tell. We talked about normal shit till after dinner, when things got a little stronger.
"You like big dicks, son?"
I don't know why he called me "son", but I liked it. "Yeah, I like big dicks."
"I got ten inches that would sure like a shot at your ass."
That was the proposition. Nothing fancy. No games. I swallowed hard--real hard and asked him for it.
"You can have my ass. But first .... I-I'd like you to do me a favor. You ever bust a guy's ass before?"
He looked surprised, but interested. I waited for him to kick my ass out the door.
"You mean like--like a spanking?"
"Shit no. I mean like a board! A paddle. Licks. Anybody ever give you a lick?"
"Yeah, back in high school. All the time."
"Ever GIVE a guy a lick?"
He was getting more and more interested.
"No, I spanked a guy once. Bare assed."
"What'd it feel like?"
He thought.
"It felt good. At least it did to me. The other guy didn't like it so much."
I looked at those arms. I'll bet he didn't. He was getting pretty excited, but he thought I was another crazy guy from the city. Let's face it--I was, but I spoke with the openness and frankness that came with knowing I'd never see this guy again.
"How would you like ....
I got closer to him and lowered my voice. My dick was hard.
"How would you like to bust my ass?"
"You mean with a--paddle?"
"Yeah. With a paddle. Really bust my ass?"
"How hard?"
"REAL hard."
"How hard is REAL hard?"
"As hard as you can swing the paddle."
His hand reached down and stroked his hard dick through his jeans. He was going to do it. His voice got more stern.
"How many licks?"
"FIVE. As hard as you can make 'em."
He looked me right in the eye.
"That's pretty---hard, son. Are you shittin' me? You want five licks, as hard as I WANT?"
"Nope. Five licks, as hard as you CAN."
He ran his hands through his hair, thinking.
"Then what?"
"Then, .... you got yourself one hell of a hot butt to fuck."
That got his attention. He shifted his weight in his side of the booth in an effort to deal with his growing hard-on. He lowered his voice, and squinted his eyes into a dead-serious, threatening look that was all business.
"You're on. I'll do it."
I was almost surprised. The look he gave me had me thinking he was going to kick my faggot ass out the door. He continued, "Five licks. Hard."
"Hard?", I asked him.
He had on a tee shirt. He brought both arms up toward his mighty chest and clenched his fists. The biceps of both his arms fought the cloth of the tee shirt. The guy was built.
"HARD. As HARD as I can make 'em."
I swallowed hard again. Shit. My dick was about to bust. He had one more question.
"Suppose I take you out to the country, give you a lick, maybe two licks, an' you say, 'No way, mother-fucker.' What about my fuck?"
"You don't get a fuck; Not unless you give me five licks first. You're going to have to work for that fuck. You're going to have to earn it. AND, you're going to have to earn my respect.
I continued, "You DESERVE my respect. You're the boss. For the whole day. What I say doesn't amount to a mound of shit. If I show you any disrespect, give me an EXTRA lick; and if I call you a mother-fucker, well, I wouldn't let that go unpunished if I were you. I'm telling you I 'want' five licks. You may think I 'deserve' six, ten or fifteen. If I mouth off to you, I 'need' more than five. Your word, as to the actual number, is final. When you say 'Bend over' I'll bend over. If I don't, swat me for it. If I give you any lip, swat me for it. You've got to control this deal. Please. And be firm. I need to 'earn' some of those swats. I need to 'deserve' 'em."
He was getting pretty worked up.
"I ain't got no paddle. Guess I can cut one out. I got a good board. I reckon could cut a good paddle."
"What kind of work do you do?"
"Construction."
Oh shit.
He turned over his napkin and started sketching out a paddle. First, he drew a medium-sized one, with a short handle. Then he turned it over and drew on the back.
"I'm gonna make this a big fucker."
He sketched out a larger paddle, over two and a half feet long, and over six inches wide.
"You DID say HARD, right?"
"Right."
At that, he extended the handle to accommodate both his hands. He had the build to get a board that big moving.
It was Thursday night. He gave me that look of his.
"I'll meet you Saturday morning, at 10:00, in front of the gym. I'll be in a light blue pick-up. Be early. For every minute you're late, you're gonna git a lick. An EXTRA lick. Understand? You got anything else to say, say it now."
"Just one thing. Western. You mind? Jeans, boots..."
"Just be there."
Fuck. Of course he'd be western. He WAS western. I dig western. He IS western. He put out his right hand; we shook.
"You don't know me very well, and you don't know what yer askin' for, but you just bought yerself a busted ass. My name's Dub. Dub Thompson."
"Well, Dub--Mr. Thompson, I'll be there, Saturday morning."
He stood to leave, tucking the napkin with the sketch on it into his back pocket. I saw that his dick was still hard, beneath a wet spot in his tight jeans.
"You better be. Plan on being gone the whole day..... and night."
"Okay.
"What?"
"Yes. SIR.
"YOU BETTER SAY 'SIR!' YOU UNDERSTAND?"
"YES, SIR."
As I watched him walk out of the coffee shop, I was hit with a wave of fear. I couldn't believe I'd had the balls to ask that guy "Dub" for something I'd been wanting for such a long time. The realization stunned me. I was shaking. My hard-on was gone. I was scared. All those nights I'd wished for this, all the time I spent thinking about it. All the loads I'd shot over this. It was going to happen. Just like I wanted it. HARD. But dreaming about it, thinking about it, shooting load after load thinking about it, didn't hurt. That was the only difference. THINKING about getting a busted ass doesn't hurt. It feels good. Damn good. GETTING a busted ass--hurts. But I had to do it. I craved it--needed it. That night, in my cheap-shit motel room, I laid awake all night. I thought about that guy, and what he was going to do to my butt. Five licks--the hardest five he had. Shit! And that was if I behaved myself! Who knew how many I'd actually get. Maybe the guy would go easy on me. Maybe--(I hope not)- just maybe. The guy's never given a lick before. Maybe he'll fuck up, at first anyway. I thought about those biceps, that heavy chest. The way he lifted those weights in the gym when I couldn't stop watching him, the way the muscles, even in his back, rippled and boosted the strength in his arms. Of course he could give licks. If my wimpy geometry teacher could give licks in a three-piece suit, THIS guy could REALLY give licks. I remembered our conversation-.
"Five licks, as hard as I WANT?"
"Nope. Five licks, as hard as you CAN."
"As HARD AS I CAN???"
"As HARD AS YOU CAN."
As hard as you can. It was a long night. I wanted to shoot a load. Just thinking about the fear, the fire of the licks, the sight of Dub whacking off, but I didn't dare. The only reason I asked him in the first place was because I was horny. If I shot a load, I'd really get scared. I needed to stay horny, otherwise., I'd pack up and leave. Oh, yes! I thought about it. He didn't even know my name or where I was from, other than the state of Texas. Maybe he wait about fifteen minutes (fifteen licks), before climbing back into his light-blue pick-up and roaring down the street of that shitty town, feeling like a sucker. A real sucker. The one that got away. Cussing at a brand-new wood paddle, the work of his own hands, his own fuckin' board, with no ass to bust, and no ass to fuck, and a ten-inch limp dick in his crotch. My dick, wherever the hell I was by that time, would be limp, too. And the next time I saw a well-built, good-looking guy, and wished he would take a big, thick board and bust my butt with it, I'd be right back here. It was a moment of truth. I wanted it, AND I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to feel every ounce of fire that board had. I wanted to feel Dub. I wanted to feel all of him, every ounce of strength and determination he had through that board. I wanted to feel Dub, I wanted to have him explode across my butt, and put tears in my eyes. Real tears. I wanted to feel the power of those arms, that chest. I wanted to get hit hard. HARD. My butt could take it. I could take it. I was built; had a good ass. Even Dub thought so. A hard ass. Hard licks. Ten inches. TEN INCHES. I'll bet a lot of guys would take a paddling to get ten inches. Ten inches of Dub. Ten inches backed by over six feet of prime beef. Six feet of tanned, muscled, cowboy. With a Marlboro-Man face--deep blue eyes, sandy hair, thick mustache.
"You like big dicks?"
"Yeah, I like big dicks."
He'd offered me a straight butt-fuck. I was going to get that butt-fuck, plus something I needed real bad from a man like him. A busted-butt-fuck. I was going to get Dub, slammed across my butt, and up my butt,
I was there, right on time, Saturday morning at 9:45 A.M.
"GIT IN.
He stopped just long enough for me to open the door and jump in, and we were off. I was past the point of no return. I looked over at him. I was real nervous, and REAL scared. He'd been about ten minutes late, the longest ten minutes of my life.
"Sir, I-I was a-afraid you might not sh-sh-show.......
"SHUT UP!"
The friendly rapport we had the other night ended when I got in that truck. He had his instructions, I had mine. It was role time. He looked good. Damn good. Beneath his faithful, rain-stained Stetson, his sharp, tanned features took on a stern, masculine expression. Beneath two days' growth of beard, he looked tough. The growth of beard cast a dark shadow on the red skin of his face. He would've looked good with a beard--But not here. Not in Alabama, not in this truck. He wore a long-sleeved western shirt, sleeves rolled up, snugly tucked into an old, probably favorite pair of faded blue jeans. A thick leather belt circled his waist firmly, with a large rodeo-type buckle. The brown leather boots were well-worn and comfortable. He drove without speaking or looking at me.
The paddle was between us, with the wide end on the floor of the truck. The size of it scared the shit out of me. It was over two and a half feet long. The wide end (MY end) was a full six inches wide. The long handle allowed ample room for both his hands, and the handle thickened somewhat at the tip to allow him to grip it near the top for a wider swing. The handle gracefully and expertly widened into the full six-inch width "business end". The "business end" was about fifteen inches long, by six inches wide. Ninety blistering square inches--one hell of a big swat. The board was a full inch thick, but he had hand sanded the whole paddle down to a thickness of about 7/8". The edges were rounded and smoothed, all by hand. He had taken a drill and put about fifteen holes in a grid (five down, three across) across the middle of the business end--enough to let the air pass through, but not enough to weaken the paddle or deprive my backside of any wood. This thing was no paddle. A paddle is what you get hit with in the coach's office. A paddle is what all the frat boys horse around with. This fucker wasn't no paddle. This was a big, fat "LICK BOARD". A "BLISTER BOARD", a "BUTT BUSTER". You get swats from a paddle. You get blister swats and the bruises that go with them from a lick board. I was shaking. All over. We'd gone about five miles out of town. We were alone, on a long country road. No other traffic. We could see for miles. He stopped the truck.
"GIT OUT. "
"I-is this it?"
"Nope. Halfway. Last chance. You still want to go through with this?"
"Yes.
What?"
"Yes. SIR."
He was getting out of the truck.
"I want you to give me a little.... inspiration."
"Who--what?"
"GIT THE BOARD."
I got out, holding the board in both hands. He took his wallet, and a can of "Skoal" chewing tobacco out of his hip pockets, and placed them on the seat of the truck. He took out a lump of tobacco and stuck it in his mouth, between his cheek and gum. He walked around to my side of the truck, spread his boots apart and bent over. As he grabbed his ankles, he shouted to me, yelling around the tobacco thick in his mouth.
"YOU GOT ONE LICK! ONE CHANCE! TO GET ME GOOD 'N MAD. YOU BETTER MAKE IT COUNT, BOY! GO ON! MAKE IT COUNT!!!"
I couldn't believe it. HE was asking ME for a lick.
"COME ON! MAKE ME MAD! I WANNA GIT GOOD 'N MAD!"
I moved towards him, and took in the sight of him, my mind a giant mess of fear, anticipation, confusion--you name it. His strong hands gripped the ankles of his boots. Long, long legs spread wide, up to his..... ass. Broad shoulders, bent over, tapering into a narrow waist, into his.... ass. His jeans were snug, but not tight. (Only faggots wear 'em that tight.) But they fit. They fit good. They fit his ass, they fit his thighs, his knees, and they fit right over his boots. And he'd had them a while. They were well-faded, worn nearly white in places. Guess he just couldn't give them up. I stared at his butt. His firm, hard cowboy butt. He had a cowboy's narrow hips, but he had an athlete's ass. I'd seen his rodeo belt buckle. Maybe he rode broncos, or bulls. I could see him flying up high and landing hard. HARD on his butt in the saddle. Beneath his thick leather belt, his jeans had copper rivets at all the stress points. They were now faded dark brown at the tops of his hip pockets. His right hip pocket bore a faded outline of his Skoal can. His left pocket was dimpled somewhat, from the familiar home of his wallet. Between the edge of his right hip pocket and the seam that ran down the crack of his ass was a small, ragged hole, barely visible when he stood or walked, but bent over, the threads spread wide, revealing a hole about the size of a dime. I could see the white skin of his ass through it.
"Make it COUNT, boy! Make it COUNT! BUST my ASS, boy, BUST MY ASS!"
I took the paddle in both hands and placed it on his ass. I was shaking, but I was going to do it right. He spit tobacco in the dirt under his head.
He wanted me to make him mad--make him mad so he'd really bust MY ass. That's what I wanted, even though I was scared to death. I tightened up my grip on the board, drew it way back and let it go with ALL my might.
C-R-A-a-a-a-a-A-C-K!!!
I was afraid of what he was going to do. I watched his ass absorb the lick. I watched as his head flew back when the board landed. I saw his teeth clench--his eyes open wide in instant fire. I still held the paddle as he slowly rose to his feet and turned around and looked me in the eyes. His eyes were red with tears. His face was drenched with sweat. It was a big paddle, and it was a HARD lick. It was a BLISTER lick. If I hadn't been there, if we weren't in our "roles", he would have rubbed the hell out of his backside. But he couldn't. But he WAS good 'n MAD. He grabbed the paddle out of my hands and threw in the back of the truck.
"YOU GIT YER BUTT IN THAT TRUCK! AN' DON'T YOU OPEN YER MOUTH!"
The lick had changed his personality. Before he acted mean, now he was mean. Tougher. Stronger. More determined. Mad. He winced as he slid his blazing ass onto the seat of the truck. Far from comfortable, he stiffened his long legs and settled his ass down a second time. He slammed the door shut, and with a shaky right arm, started up the truck and left a long trail of rubber on the pavement. I could hear him breathing hard, seething with anger. If he hadn't known what "HARD" meant, he did now. He drove hard and fast, for about five more miles. We turned down a gravel road, passed a single mailbox, and turned down a dusty, dirt road. There was a mobile home with one folding chair on the porch in front of it. We drove past it, on the dirt road for about a mile. He stopped the truck, in the middle of nowhere. No houses, cars, trucks, livestock, nothing. Just him and me. I could see the outline of a ten-inch dick, pressing at his fly.
"GIT OUT. "
He grabbed the paddle out of the back of the truck, clamped his hand around the back of my neck, and walked me about fifty feet further down the road in front of the truck.
"What 'ya got in them pockets?"
"Nothing, SIR."
"What ya got on under them jeans?"
"J-just a jock strap, SIR!"
I'd worn it to save the backs of my balls.
"ANYTHING ELSE?"
"NO, SIR!
"GOOD."
I knew his butt was still burning. It had been about ten minutes since he took the lick, and that ain't long. He said it with almost military sharpness.
"BEND OVER!"
I snapped into the position I had assumed many times alone, at home. This time, it was for real. I spread my boots way apart, almost three feet. As I bent forward, I felt him jerk my shirttail out of the back of my jeans.
"TAKE IT OFF!"
I fumbled at the buttons, took off my shirt and handed it to him. He threw it onto the ground. I bent over, and grabbed the ankles of my boots. And I waited. He stood in back of me, and way to the left. I could see his shadow, I could even make out the paddle as he lifted it into position and placed it against my ass. I could see the outline of his strong arms, gripping the board tightly, and his firm stance. I shuddered as I felt him place the paddle to my ass, lining it up, taking careful aim, taking his time, doing it right. I knew when to expect it, when I felt the board tighten up in his hands .... any second now .... right about NOW .... no right about NOW...right about...
C-R-A-a-a-a-a-A-C-K
My ass--my whole ass, EXPLODED into a fire that I cannot describe. Not even to you. I'd never had a lick like that one. I didn't know you could get hit that hard. I reacted immediately, with a look of shock and fiery, intense pain. My eyes clouded with heavy tears. It burned hotter than ANY lick I'd ever taken. He seemed pleased with himself. No way I could take four more like that one. I stood up, and my hands flew to the seat of my pants.
"BEND OVER! MOVE THEM HANDS!"
I couldn't. I couldn't think. I couldn't do anything.
I SAID "C-R-A-a-a-a-a-A-C-K !!!" MOVE 'EM!"
The board caught the backs of both my hands. Full force. In a daze of shock, I moved my hands off my ass and brought them up towards my face.
"THAT ONE DON'T COUNT!"
"N' THIS ONE--"
C-R-A-a-a-a-a-A-C-K
"DON'T NEITHER! YOU DO THAT AGAIN AND IT'S GONNA BE TWO. TWO EXTRA!"
The lick was another hard one, right on top of the first one. My hands, as well as my butt, throbbed. I'd taken three licks, only one of which counted. I had four more--maybe--if I behaved myself. My next fuck-up was going to cost me two additional licks.
"BEND OVER! NOW!"
My ass was in flames, my hands felt broken. I sniffed back the tears, spread my boots again, and bent over, gripping the ankles of both boots hard in my injured hands. I felt the paddle, as he placed it against my ass, taking careful aim. I heard the "whoosh" of air through the holes in the board as it headed dead on for my butt. I clenched my teeth on impact.
GIT UP!
I stood up, placed my hands on my ass and started to rub at it. I could barely see him through the tears. I actually thought it was all over.
"I-is it over, Sir?"
He laughed,
"SHIT No, SON! You just had two licks so far. You still got three more to go! I just want you to THINK about 'em fer a while. Go ON! RUB YER ASS!"
I rubbed at my ass. But it didn't help. I looked at the backs of my hands, already beginning to swell. The knuckles were red and angry. He spoke in a deep, masculine, southern drawl, like a "good ol' boy." That, coupled with his sarcastic grin, was turning me on. The fact that I could see his dick getting hard through his tight, faded jeans didn't hurt. But my butt sure did. Holy shit did it hurt.
He let me walk around a bit. I rubbed at my ass. It was hot in my hands. I could feel the HEAT of those mighty licks. My dick was harder than a rock. When I rounded the truck a second time, I saw he had opened up his fly. It WAS ten inches. He was the very image of the "good ol' country boy" I had conjured up when I first saw him. He was tall, rugged, good-looking and he was built. Shit, I knew he was built. The fire in my butt proved that. I told myself I'd take the next three like a man. No shit. I'd been doing it the hard way. So far, two licks had cost me an extra three. I couldn't take any more extra swats. His licks were so hard--I couldn't just take them as though I didn't feel them. I'd thought I could. I really did. I thought I could just bend over and take it--just like in my fantasies. I thought it would feel GOOD, I thought the fire would feel GOOD. The minute I got his first lick, I found out fire feels like fire.
I walked around, stiffly, almost on my toes for a few minutes. He was prolonging the agony, making sure I got the full "enjoyment" out of these first licks before he laid on the rest. I felt the heat of the licks radiate off my ass. It felt hot, warm, sweaty--even through my jeans. I knew it had to be scarlet. The tears continued to roll down my cheeks. I was really hurting. I was sweating all over. The licks were burning their hottest by then. That's when they hurt the most always, after a minute or two, after the initial shock wears off and you feel the full, fiery effect of one lick on top of another. My dick was getting harder than a rock. Maybe I'd take the next three (?) better with a stiff dick in my pants. I hoped so. I couldn't take any more extra licks, and my next fuck up would earn me three more.
I'd gone about a hundred feet down the road, my ass in my hands, when I heard him call me. He had taken off his shirt, and was watching me, gently stroking his ten inches of meat that was sticking straight out of the open fly of his jeans. He had settled his hot, tingling ass down on the hot bumper of the front of the truck. He knew the only thing worse than taking a paddling is taking a SLOW paddling. I'll never forget those few minutes, walking around with my hot ass in my hands, knowing that as much as it was hurting then, there was plenty more to come. I wanted it to be over with. It was like, back in high school, seeing Coach write my name down at practice; knowing he was going to bust my ass .... LATER. The agony of knowing that later, in an hour maybe, your butt would be burning. That's when a guy really sweats--you want to get it over with but you can't. Dub was enjoying watching me sweat; watching my ass burn from his licks, knowing I was about to get more. The thought of getting the rest of my licks was tearing me apart, and I hated him for making me wait it out. What's the use of comforting a busted butt that's about to get busted again? Of course, later--much later--I wouldn't take anything for those agonizing few minutes, when I was caught up in fire, fear, anticipation, dread. I still got one hell of a cold shiver when I heard him call me back.
The paddle had been resting near his left boot, propped up against the truck, As I turned around and began the long walk back to the truck, he picked it up and started slapping it HARD against the palm of his left hand; threatening--never taking his eyes off me--his hard dick sticking straight up. The closer I got to him, the more I could hear it strike his palm. The sweat was glistening on his mighty chest in the hot sun. Dark hair swept itself into a vertical line that disappeared at his navel into the big belt buckle and played at the base of his dick, still poking out of his fly. As I got closer, I drank in the sight of him. Good-looking, tall, built, and MEAN. The chest, the arms, the hard dick. The paddle. He could see my dick, too. Wedged into a soaking wet jock strap, fighting to get out of my pants. He jumped to his feet and again clamped his hand around my neck.
This time, he walked me to the rear of the truck, to the tailgate. With a stern, Clint Eastwood smile, he said
"Open it. "
I fumbled at the tailgate, and got it open. The bed of his truck was loaded with old feed bags, carpentry tools, old beer cans, empty Skoal cans.
"Lay across it. Ass-up."
At first, I spread my boots and bent over, and placed my hands on the edge. With the heel of his right boot, he shoved my ass forward till my crotch hit the edge.
"I said LAY ACROSS it!"
The tailgate was low to the ground. I had to spread my boots wide--too wide--to get my body low enough to lay across it. With my crotch jammed against the edge of it, I slowly tried to settle my bare chest and abdomen down flat against the scorching hot bed of the truck. It was TOO hot.
"I-I can't, sir. "
I heard the paddle slap against his palm again.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?"
I shut my eyes and smothered the heat of that truck bed with my chest. The sweat of my body cooled it slowly. It was a relief to have something hurt besides my ass. I clenched my hands into two fists and stretched them out straight in front of me. I raised my head, and fixed my eyes ahead, on the rear window. Through the rear-view mirror inside, I could see him, his hard dick still poking out of his jeans. My bruised and battered ass lay there, presented for him, spread wide for him. And it wasn't going nowhere. At least, with his fuckin' truck under me, he knew he wouldn't knock me over again. He was getting ready.
"You so much as OPEN YOUR MOUTH--yer gonna git three. Three EXTRA! You understand me, boy?"
"YES, SIR!"
"'An if I see any HANDS, I'm gonna BUST 'EM! --AND--yer gonna get FIVE! EXTRA!"
"Y-YES, SIR."
"AND ... if you even THINK about punchin' me again, yer gonna get TEN!--BARE-ASSED!.
"Y-Y-YES, SIR."
He spit tobacco again. I braced myself hard, and the lick came almost immediately.
"C-R-A-a-a-a-a-A-C-K !!!"
The board slammed head-on across the seat of my jeans. My whole body shook with sobs as if a bucket of kerosene had been thrown onto the fire that was raging deep in my butt. I yelled out, but I didn't cuss. I just yelled--as loud as I could--through tears and heavy crying. I wanted to cover my ass. I knew I couldn't. Instead, I pounded my fists, hard, again and again into the hard metal. Yelling at the top of my lungs. I'd taken "three" licks.
"C-R-A-a-a-a-a-A-C-K"
I lost it. Again.
I broke the rules--HIS rules - (my rules) -AGAIN. After he warned me.
NO WAY!!! NO MORE!! I CAN'T TAKE ANY MORE! YOU FUCKIN' SON OF A BITCH!!
"SHUT UP! YER GITTIN' AN EXTRA FOUR, BOY!!!"
I started to stand up. They caught me, hard and fast, before I could move.
C-R-A-a-a-a-A-C-K
C-R-A-a-a-a-A-C-K
C-R-A-a-a-a-A-C-K
C-R-A-a-a-a-A-C-K
I wish to hell that was the last one. Wish he'd gone on and given me the last two. I could have taken them right on top of the others. Two more, on top of four, wouldn't have made much difference. I guess he knew that. He'd warned me. I knew the rules. The four swats were my punishment for disrespect and disobedience. I'd earned them. He made me wait for the last two swats. He made me wait an agonizing five minutes while he stroked at his dick some more.
To show you how effective a paddling can be, even under the excruciating circumstances, I didn't say a word. I was afraid of what would happen. I KNEW it would happen if I did. At least I could cry. All I could do was cry. But I sure as shit watched my mouth.
He lifted the board, and once again placed it across my ass. The last two. Maybe. He rubbed it back and forth across the seat of my smoking jeans. Back and forth, back and forth. He withdrew it, swung it hard and..... stopped it just short of my ass. I felt the adrenaline rush and then subside. He teased me with that lick again, this time letting out a huge grunt and again, stopping the board. The third time was the real thing!
"C-R-A-a-a-a-a-A-C-K"
Then, before I could catch my breath....
"K-E-R --- A-a-a-a-a-A-C-K !!!"
I held it in. Whatever my reaction would have been, I held it in. As the board cracked across my ass, I sucked in my breath and gritted my teeth. He seemed surprised by the magnitude of the swat himself. He had been swinging that board as hard as he thought he could, but on the last one he found a little extra muscle somewhere; a little extra..... fire. My butt absorbed it all somehow, and the fire of the last lick, added its own fire to the others that preceded it. He watched me closely for a reaction. I held it in--I knew my ass couldn't take any more. I continued to grit my teeth to stop the flow of cussing that would surely cost me licks. I shook all over, afraid to even breathe.
"Git up, son."
It was over. I slowly rose to my feet, and gripped my flaming backside in both hands. Hard. I couldn't feel my hands on my ass. I couldn't feel anything but the fire in my ass. I couldn't see anything; I couldn't hear anything. All I knew was that my ass was on fire. I've used the word "fire" over and over again in this letter. I've tried, over the past two years, to come up with a way of describing what it was like. That's what it was. FIRE. Open fire. Open flames. My butt was on fire. And I couldn't put it out.
Dub left me alone to walk some of it off. I was in a strange sort of shock, but I walked slowly and carefully, with my ass in my hands. I'd gone a short distance from the truck. My chest and abdomen were black from the grease in the bed of the truck. I was shaking and sweating. I could feel the heat from the licks radiating off my blistered ass. The seat of my jeans were wet with sweat from the heat of the licks. There was fire--everywhere.
Have you ever seen a grown man cry? I mean REALLY cry. (If you bust butts, you may have.) With the fire of twelve hard, solid, blistering swats on my ass, plus one to the backs of my hands, I sank to my knees in the dirt and started to bawl. Where I came from, a guy didn't cry. You just dealt with whatever it was, and held it all in. There was no way I could deal with the fire in my ass, so I just let it all out; and it sure felt good. I must have sobbed and cried for a good half hour, and when I finally stopped I'd cried out every problem I ever had. I cried out years of frustration, years of lonely nights and years of never getting what I needed bad. The relief was overwhelming. That paddling was the best "therapy" I could have ever gotten. Man, everybody needs a good cry like that. I'd just never had anything to cry about before that afternoon. After thirty minutes of crying and pounding my fists into the dirt, and getting it all out, I stood up again. I had a raging hard-on. My butt had slowly burned down, and it was starting to feel numb, or "dead". The fire was leaving, but was replaced by a strange "tingling"', like a thousand tiny needles so close together that they almost touched each other. The needles "pricked" at my ass, going in and out in throbbing waves. There was a hell of a lot of pain still, but not the fire from before. I knew that the tingling I was feeling in my ass was just a reaction from the licking--a gift from my ass to my brain. The nerves in my butt had to be in shock. I knew the pain would be back later.
Dub was waiting, for me when I made it back to the truck.
I walked over to him. He pulled me, by the shoulders, close to him. So close that his ten-inch-long hard-on, poking through his fly, was poking at my crotch. He ran his course hands down my back and onto the seat of my jeans, never taking his eyes off mine. I moved my hands off my backside as he slowly and firmly rubbed and soothed my flaming butt through my clammy jeans, feeling the heat and the sweat from the paddling. My ass was stinging and tingling with a throbbing, aching pain, but it had a "dead", numb tingling sort of pain. It was becoming bearable, almost comfortable--especially with his hands back there. He drew me closer--even closer--to him. I felt the long, hard shaft poking me hard. His eyes were still on mine, as he continued to rub and comfort my ass. It felt as if it was getting even harder, more restless. He would have to use it soon; it had been hard for two hours, maybe even longer before that. I felt him unbuckling my belt, then my jeans, then slowly unzipping my fly. After opening my pants, he put a strong right hand around my balls and my own hard-on, wet and sticky inside the soaking wet jock. He squeezed them, separated them, played with them--never taking his eyes off mine. He led me, once again, to the back of the tailgate. He went to the glove box of his truck and brought back a tube of Vaseline. I guess he always kept a tube there--always available--and did he ever need it. He put the tube down on the tailgate and I turned around, once again facing the back windshield, my back and ass to him.
I shut my eyes as he crouched down and slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y, peeled the seat of my jeans away, lowering them to about my knees.
The sight of it stunned him, like the unveiling of some violent, hideous work of art. He ran his hands over the damage, without speaking. As I would see that evening in the mirror, my ass--my entire ass--was purple--scarlet, from just below my belt line to the tops of my thighs. Most of the damage was to the dead middle of each cheek, on either side of my crack, where the deep scarlet gave way to an even angrier white. Not a skin white, but a throbbing, swelling, reaction--the early stage of blistering. Dub had blistered my butt right through my britches.
He continued to stare at my ass, amazed at the color of it; the sweat, the heat. The damage. My butt was still numb--I could not feel his hands, as-they explored the surface of it--but I knew they were there. I could feel the friction, the motion, just not the actual massaging. Not after what I HAD felt back there. I guess my ass was in shock. Then I felt it...
I felt his tongue as he licked at my asshole. I closed my eyes as he drew me closer with his hands on my hips as he crouched down and ran his tongue up and down along the inside of my crack, between my hot, red, scorched cheeks. He took a long time getting us both ready. I shuddered as he spread my cheeks apart with his hands and buried his face deep in my crack, first playing with it, teasing it, then forcing it in. He breathed heavily and frantically, turned on by the look, taste, smell and feel of a busted ass. After a long while, he replaced his tongue with a finger. It went in easily after the work of his tongue. I felt it poking, twisting, turning slowly, one finger became two. He slowly pulled my jeans off over my boots. He didn't need to talk. His silence made it even better. I stood there, naked except for my boots as he opened his belt buckle and stepped out of his jeans. He placed them with mine, over the side of the truck. His body was darkly tanned except for a boxer-shorts area of pure white skin. His ass was a healthy pink from the lick I gave him three hours earlier. In placing our jeans over the side of the truck, he glanced at the paddle. His dick was every bit of ten hard inches, drooling a long, clear thread of pre-cum.
I was ready for that long, thick dick. Still, without speaking, he took the Vaseline and greased it up. He was breathing in short, heavy gasps, almost panting. He stuck a long, greasy finger up my ass, coating my insides. We both stood naked, except for our boots, in the hot midday sun. I bent over the tailgate and felt the head of his dick pressing at the crack of my ass. It was so damned big! He held me firmly by my hips and slowly leaned into me. I winced in pain as the wide head slowly pried my crack open to the limit. I thought I was going to split, but he persisted and I took it in. All of its thickness. Once he got in, he really leaned into my ass. Slowly, s-1-o-w-l-y, inch by inch, by inch, by inch, by inch, he pushed in. I yelled out a couple of times in pain, as I'd never taken anything like him before. He rested for a minute, and I heard his breathing increase in a level of passion I'd never seen in a guy. He was about half of the way in. He pushed again, and I slowly took another inch. I felt his arms tighten hard around my waist in a huge bear hug. He pushed HARD. All the way in. I felt like I was strangling on my own tongue. I had him. All ten inches of him. His crotch was jammed into my ass all the way. He stood there for a couple of minutes without moving. We were fully connected. I could feel his hard meat through the in sides of my body. My dick was about to bust. He started moving slightly. Every motion was felt deep inside me. His first thrusts were very slight. I was gripping him pretty tight. Shit, it felt good! Slowly he increased his thrusting, first one or two inches, then about three or four inches. Slow--all of it slow. He was in no hurry. He slowly pulled out, then slowly pushed back in. He'd been hard for a long time, so I knew be was being careful not to shoot; to early. I shut my eyes and felt him--in and out--slowly. After a long while, he picked up some steam. He tightened his grip around me and his long thrusts got harder. He'd almost back out completely, then shove his dick back in with full force. Suddenly he gripped me with all his might and went at it with all he bad. Long, hard thrusts, all the way in, all the way out. Faster and faster. His crotch was cramming into my ass with heavy, slapping noises. He was ready to cum......
"AaaaarrrrGH !!!"
I felt the hot spurts deep in my gut. Again and again. Filling me up. He kept up the thrusting, harder, faster. He kept spurting and howling like a bear. There was nobody to hear him. He still wasn't soft. He reached for my dick in his right band. I shut my eyes in ecstasy as he pumped me hard. I came almost immediately, sending load after load of cum all over everything. He increased his thrusting again and came once more. He loosened his grip on my dick, and I felt him slowly go soft inside me. He didn't pull out till the last moment, when his hardness slowly went away and I pushed him out.
Afterward, we collapsed in exhaustion. Dub moved away from me and leaned against the truck, panting from the heat and work out. I just bent over, with my hands on my knees, trying to catch a breath. It was a long while before either of us spoke. Dub walked over to me and stuck out his right hand. I took it and shook it as I rose to my feet.
"I hope there ain't no hard feelings."
He was nice to say it, but I was never more grateful to an individual in my life.
"Thanks, Dub. Thanks for everything."
We put our jeans back on and Dub started the truck. We drove back to the trailer house. He lived alone. Dub carried his hat, our shirts and the paddle into the house. He handed me a cold beer. I must have guzzled it in thirty seconds. He plopped down into a favorite chair, closing his eyes as the cold beer soothed him. When I sat down, I couldn't feel anything over the numbness. It didn't feel good or bad. My butt was dead. He got us each another beer.
"How's yer butt feelin' ?"
"Man, where did you learn how to give a lick? SHIT!"
He laughed as he took another swig.
"I just did what you told me. I swung that board was hard as I could. Look, buddy, that lick you gave me wasn't no slouch. My butt's still burning."
We talked about the paddling and the fuck for another two beers. From time to time we each got a stirring in our crotches, but neither of us had the energy to do anything about it.
Finally, he asked me, "How many licks was it? Total?"
"Twelve licks. Plus one to the backs of my hands."
"You should have behaved yerself. You'd have gotten off with five."
He was right, I knew it. Dub pulled a couple of thick steaks out of the ice box and started building a fire out back. I needed a shower, My ass was really starting to throb. The numbness was wearing off, and I felt feverish. I went into the bathroom and slowly took off my jeans and look at my ass in the mirror. The sight of it scared me to death.
Apparently, the licks were placed on top each other. Already, there were early signs of two long, horizontal welts running from the left side of my ass to the right--one at the top of my ass, one at the bottom. The long welt across the top represented the top edge of the board. The one six inches below it was from the bottom edge. They were caused by the sudden flattening of my ass on impact, into the rectangular shape of the paddle. The welts defined the broad limits of damage to my ass, centered by the "white zone," which took the brunt of the punishment, and were the last signs of the paddling to finally disappear. Minute by minute, the "white zone" became more and more defined. Later, they would gradually turn to a painful black and blue, then yellow and brown. The pain was most intense in the black-and-blue period, which lasted for several days (and nights) and was accompanied by much swelling and hot, throbbing pain. There was a lot of surface pain for a couple of days, where the skin on my ass hurt. Below that, deep within my ass, the bruises throbbed--all the time. I took aspirin around the clock, to control that slight fever that accompanied the constant pain. Ice packs, one under each cheek, between the seat of my pants and the seat of my car, were the only thing that got me back to Texas. I must have stopped, that car a hundred times, just to get out and stretch my..... legs.
After two days of ice packs, the swelling was gone and the bruising was beginning to turn yellowish brown. It stopped hurting "all the time", but instead, smarted only when--you guessed it--I sat down. I COULD sit down, as long as I did it carefully and didn't place all my weight on my butt. The bruising took two weeks to disappear completely. The long welts took about another week to fade away.
After running my hands over the damage on my ass, I stepped into the cool shower. Minute by minute the pain in my ass was increasing. As the numbness wore off, the throbbing aching pain grew deeper and deeper. Usually, after a "normal" paddling, after a couple of hours your ass starts to feel better. But if you get a "busted ass", after a couple of hours is when you really have trouble. I remembered one time I got four licks from the coach my senior year. Four was the most I ever got from him at one time. Next to Dub, the coach gave me the hardest licks I ever got. After the whipping Dub gave me, my ass went numb. But later that night, when the numbness was gone, it hurt all over again. He had busted my ass. That's what was starting to happen to me then. The numbness was wearing off, leaving a thoroughly busted ass. Much worse than the coach's. Before that day, those four licks from the coach topped anything I'd gotten, including paddlings during four years in a fraternity. That paddling from the coach was four licks. This was thirteen. I rummaged around and took three extra-strength aspirin. My first in a long chain. Between aspirin, beer and Jack Daniels, I made it through the rest of the day. While Dub was in the shower, I went on the porch, still holding my ass in my hands, and saw the area of the porch where he must have made the paddle. There were scraps of wood, a saw, and a pile of used sand paper.
We had a hell of a good dinner. Dub sat to eat his; I stood up. Every now and then he'd shoot me a Clint Eastwood smile. My ass was starting to swell. So much so, that my jeans were getting a little tight, and it felt very hot.
That night I was having some real trouble and Dub scrounged around his medicine cabinet and found nothing but that worthless white first-aid cream that doesn't do a damned thing. Anyway, he sat on my bare back and rubbed in the entire tube. Needless to say, it led to another dynamite fuck, with an interesting twist.
We moved to the dining area, where I bent over the same table we'd eaten dinner at. After getting us both ready with the Vaseline, and after he was in part way, he suddenly pulled out. We were both buck naked.
"You want a REAL fuck?"
"Yeah. "
"I mean a REAL fuck!"
"YEAH! 't
He handed me the paddle again. He turned around, scooping up his rock-hard dick and balls in his hands. He bent over and rested his elbows on his knees with his dick and balls safely out of the way.
GIMMIE A LICK!"
What? Bare-assed?"
YOU HEARD ME! GIMMIE A LICK!"
I couldn't imagine a lick with that paddle on the bare butt. But I did it.
C-R-A-a-a-a-a-a-A-C-K
SHIT! HOLY S H I T !!!"
He bounced around the room rubbing his red, bare ass. Cussing like he'd heard me cuss earlier that day. When he calmed down a little he fucked my ass harder than I thought possible. I'd wince each time he'd slap my ass with his crotch, but it was the fuck of a lifetime for both of us.
By the time we finally went to sleep, it was early in the morning. I lay awake all night, thinking about the day before, with my hot, throbbing ass in my hands. Dub lay quietly asleep, the fire of the lick I gave him buried somewhere deep in his sleep.
The next morning finally came, and the swelling and the pain in my ass was so bad I could barely roll over in bed. I popped some more aspirin. I had to get my stuff together, but I was barely able to fasten my jeans, my butt was so swollen. Dub looked over at me. It was hard for him to say what he wanted.
"I done you a favor. Would you do ME a favor?"
"I'll try ... What is it?"
He was almost ashamed; but determined. Just as I had been when I first asked him if he'd bust my ass. He rolled over in the bed, exposing his bare ass. He shut his eyes, and he just said it.
"Nobody never.... I ain't never let nobody fuck me in the ass.
My dick was hard the minute he said it. I'd known he was a top from the first minute I saw him. I sure never thought I'd get a shot at that ass of his. His smooth ass looked good to me, especially since it still had a warm, pink, rosy glow from the bare-assed lick late the night before. It was still tender from it. I was out of my jeans in a second. It really was his first time. He was plenty nervous; but plenty turned-on. I took a long time. I reached for some Vaseline and carefully prepared both his ass and my dick. My butt was aching, but I had my mind on his ass. I don't like to fuck in bed. It's too...... passive. We moved once again to the kitchen table. He stood up, and I knelt down in front of him. As I slowly inserted first one finger then two in his tight crack, I carefully took his rock-hard dick in my mouth. As I stimulated him with my mouth, he slowly relaxed his ass and my fingers took over, slowly opening him up. He lay across the table and I pressed the tip of my dick at his ass. I'm not nearly as big as he was, just average, but as tight as he was I finally made it all the way in. There was some pain, but after a while he got into it. I gave him the best fuck I could manage in my condition. Everything I did seemed to hurt my ass. My ass hurt every time I blinked.
When it was all over, he drove me back to the motel. It seemed like I'd been away from that room for a week. As he drove the truck, I turned to him and asked him something.
"I'm not ever going to see you again, am I? "
It was a slow response, but it was the one I expected.
"No. You're not."
Well, I went into that little town hoping for a good one-night stand, and that's what I got. The only trouble with a one-night stand is that sometimes you wish they could last. I don't know what his reasons were, but I couldn't argue with them. Maybe he had somebody else; I don't know. I don't even know if Dub Thompson is his real name. The letters I've written have all been returned, unopened. I know he would have read them. I think he's moved on, and he doesn't know how to get in touch with me, if he wanted to. But I'll never forget him.
Now you know this story. If you recognize my style, I've written a couple of letters that have run in Drummer Daddies. Writing about it, thinking about it, and shooting load after load about it is my only release of what turns me on the most. I am "Mike" and you've probably read my letters if you read Drummer. Don't be disappointed. Mike is not completely fictitious. He is based on real experiences, one of which you have just read. As I said earlier, for reasons of my own, I can't tell anyone about my experience with Dub. But "Mike" can tell the world about his "dad" busting his butt. I am "Mike", and Dub was my "dad".
I hope you really get off to this experience. It's for you. It feels good to remember, though I could never forget. As I told you way back on page 1, someday I'd like to meet you and get it on for real. Right now, you'll have to be satisfied with this letter, and the others that will follow.
In the meantime, this letter and my picture are for your eyes only. Please don't share this with anyone. This is between you and me.
I wish to hell this BOARD was between you and me right now. RIGHT NOW. Because I'm fixing to get up from this chair and shoot a load for both of us. My dick's been hard since I first got started. If I just had about five good ones--REAL good one--back there, I bet I could shoot ten feet.
I hope you made it through the whole letter. I guess you could say I get a little "wordy"; but I had a hell of a lot to say. No, I'm not going to sign this or give my address. I probably will, someday, but not now. I'll be in touch again. I'm just a little scared. I know what I need. I need another busted ass. Trouble is, I now KNOW what a busted ass means. I'm looking at this paddle, and I remember what it was like. I remember the fire and the tears. I remember a sore, red, swollen butt. But I deserve it. Again. But, just like with Dub, I'll take it. And I think from my story, you realize that I know what I'm talking about. I'm not one of those guys you've probably come across who says he needs it, then is out the door after one or two licks. I'll take whatever I've got coming. But watch out--I can GIVE as good as I can get. I hope you like hard licks as much as I do.
Well, that's about it for now. I'm going to go to the office tomorrow, and splice this piece of shit together so it makes a little more sense. Hope you can make it through the typing mistakes. (I knew my typing would come in handy someday!) Take care and shoot a load for me!
Sincerely,
"MIKE"
P.S..... It's four-fuckin'-thirty in the morning! I started at around five o'clock yesterday evening. Be proud--this is the first letter I've written since high school!
ABOUT THE PADDLE
Now that I've finally finished your letter, I actually sat down with the paddle and scaled that fucker off. I've drawn it for you, to scale, as accurately as I could. I discovered some mistakes in the dimensions that I want you to be aware of.
The paddle is 2'6" (30") long, as reported earlier. However, it is a full 7" wide, not 6" as stated earlier.
As a, builder, I can't hide my interest in detail. I told you earlier that the "business end" of the paddle measured 15" X 6", resulting in a 90 square-inch swat. Well, as the drawing on the right shows, these dimensions are actually l7" X 7", providing a 119 square-inch swat.
Besides adding authenticity to my story, I'm enclosing these dimensions because they might be of use to you in some of your encounters. I've seen even bigger boards, but never one as effective; and if you're into big licks, these dimensions form a well-balanced board that in spite of its size, swings easily.
The 2"-wide handle is thick, but not for both hands, and the thickness is necessary because. if used at full force, anything less would surely break. Also of interest, Dub designed this thing using a flexible ruler and his own butt as a model. In an effort to provide maximum coverage, he first considered a full 8" width, but reduced it to 7" because of the tailbone. For this reason, I'd sure stay away from anything any wider.
Also, this paddle was cut from a 1" thick, solid oak board.
Always the cowboy (picture of "Mike")
Sorry this didn't Xerox very well, but I didn't want to part with the original. I've had better pictures taken, but I'm sending this one for a damn good reason. This photo was taken one week to the day--almost to the hour--after the paddling, at our company picnic. If I hadn't cut out my co-workers, you'd see that I'm the only one in this picture not smiling. At that time I was still very much the proud owner of a busted ass, and my ass was one giant brown and yellow bruise. This picture will always be one of my favorites because I can see by the expression on my face just what I thought of that hard, wooden step I was sitting on. Something else that might be of interest to you: I used to wear Levi 501's, but at about that time I tried out a couple of pairs of Wrangler Pro-rodeo cuts, with metal rivets, which I'm wearing in this picture. I liked the fit much better, and have since switched. Anyway, because they fit and looked good, I wore a pair for the paddling. There's a damned good chance that the pair you're looking at is the pair I had on the week before. I like to think so, anyway.