Message-ID: <14672eli$9808222300@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/14672.txt> From: "Edward Bangor" <eb@worzel.force9.net> Subject: ST: "The Paperboy" (Version 2) (F/b spank tg) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,soc.sexuality.spanking Abort: moderated crosspost Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <6rm690$g3m@news3.force9.net> (Please note the two versions of this story are basically the same but for the differing gender of the adult and other alterations for that reason.) The Paperboy (Version Two) - The Punished Paperboy Edward Bangor Story Code/s: F/b spank tg Publication History: None Comments/suggestions to: edbangor@hotmail.com Further works by the author can be fond at www.nifty.org & www.assgm.com WARNING: This story may contain descriptions of sexual acts between boys of various ages and/or adults. If this is not to your tastes, please leave now (unless you want to be educated and have an open mind that is!) This story is a reworked version of my own "The Paperboy" previously published in the anthology "Barely Legal" form by STARbooks Press and on the audio cassette of the same title from The Prowler Press. The story is copyrighted by the author. A single copy has been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. Please do not distribute it to any newsgroups and/or other web-sites without permission of the author. You may, however, send it to your friends in any form you wish, as long as payment is neither requested or received and no changes are made to this file. The story is fiction. Any resemblance to any individual, alive or dead, isn't intended but is a nice idea... ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------- The Punished Paperboy by Edward Bangor It was soon after I'd reached those magical teenage years that I was initiated into world of discipline I so longed to join. I'd puzzled what to buy with my birthday money seeing as I didn't have enough for all I wanted, plus my usual expenses. Although the latter of these was not great, it still bothered me to go without something in order to buy the new Saxon live album, The Eagle Has Landed. I suppose I could have borrowed the money from my parents, but Mother insisted I repaid promptly, and with interest, in order, she said, to teach me the value of money. In the end I came to a conclusion. A way in which I could have everything I wanted. Instead of simply buying everything I would steal one - the easiest - my Heavy Metal magazine. By the time I got to Mrs. Courtney's Corner Shop it was late one September Thursday in 1983, the day my Heavy Metal bible, Kerrang! came out. Already, dusk had fallen on the autumnal night, ensuring an easy escape out, into the darkness of the deserted, suburban streets. The newsagents was small and crammed to the rafters with everything imaginable. All the walls, including the one behind the counter, was shelved out while, every single inch of the available floor space was stacked to the gills, leaving barely enough room left for customers to pass from the front to rear. Yet, one entire wall was given over to the immense array of magazines available in the early 1980ƒs. In those days, like now, you could get a magazine on practically anything, with English reading more periodicals per head of population than any other nation! Hanging around these racks - as kids my age often did - I calmly selected Kerrang! and lent back against the shelves, flicking through the pages as casually as I could. My feet, resting on the bottom of the centre island of various babyhood items, purposely blocked the narrow passageway. Nobody knew me in this part of town, which, of course, is why I'd selected this particular place to initiate my criminal career. Far from my usual haunts I had, however, ventured there before for Mrs. Courtney's was famous in my school for carrying that special kind of magazine guaranteed to appeal to young boys. The so-called skin mags. I wasn't interested in those as I already know what I liked and it certainly wasn't those obscene images. I preferred something a little more structured, a little more organised, a little more forceful. Mrs. Courtney didn't carry anything to the exact match of my tastes but, hidden within various publications were pictures that came close especially, strangely enough, in the naturist titles. These, I discovered, occasional showed full colour plates of naked males being, usually playfully, chastised by woman. That's what I liked. Unfortunately most of the people depicted were not overly attractive. There would be, mixed amongst the offal, one or two, hard bodied late teenage bottoms under attention from large framed, maternal, woman which I had serious trouble keeping my impressionable eyes off. Thankfully, Mrs. Courtney never suspected my intentions, at least, I didn't think she did at the time. I thought she ignored me when, in reality, Mrs. Courtney watched my every movement with growing interest, waiting for the right moment and, unknowingly, I was about to give her that moment. Looking at pictures of me from that period, I can understand Mrs. Courtney's attitude even though, on that day, I had abandoned my regular school uniform for something more suiting to my operation. Hoping to make myself inconspicuous, I actually created the exact opposite impression with the faded and ripped jeans, and, an even older windbreaker, over a plain black T-shirt. Still, we should all learn by our mistakes and, how to dress, was one of Mrs. Courtney's specialities. Minutes felt like hours while I waited for something to distract Mrs. Courtney's attention from counting that day's unsold newspapers for the distributors to exchange at the start of another long day. Then, the heavy set woman turned to enter the figure into her ledgers, I took my chance. Folding Kerrang! into a half moon I was ready to slip it inside my jacket when a ringing bell announced the opening door. A head poked around the corner, "Do you sell maps, love?" enquired the motorist over the strains of Jazz music drifting from the open door of his car. "No sir." Mrs. Courtney voice only hinted at the irritation she felt at the man's overly familiar tone. Nevertheless, with regimented steps she strode down the remaining aisle towards the door. "Try the Information Centre inside the Library." she said, "I believe they open late on Thursdays." Keeping half an ear out for the given directional instructions, I took my moment. My eyes became fixated with the tight bun on the back of Mrs. Courtney's head as I slipped Kerrang! into the purposely left open zip of my jacket. A quick jiggle flattening it secured under the waist band of my jeans. Then, by pulling the jacket zip back up to my chest it vanished completely, just as the overhead bell jingled to denote that the door was, once more, closed. After checking everything was secure I looked up, right into Mrs. Courtney face. I shivered. "All juvenile thieves should get a good whipping." Mrs. Courtney spoke to me, carefully. Very carefully and with great, controlled, purpose. Unnerved, my mouth hung open. Automatically, my shaking hands extended, palm up and empty. Large, carefully manicured, female hands turned mine over as if doing a finger nail inspection. When complete, they moved further forward. Carefully picking up the small metal tab they lowered the zipper on my windbreaker until it parted to reveal the evidence tight against my shirt. The leering face of Steve Harris, Iron Maiden's, bass player right over my belly button. His multi-coloured Lycra trousers hidden by my own, giving my crutch an oddly symmetrical appearance. "I'll give you the money for it." I offered when my voice finally returned, knowing I could not. "I think the time for you to purchase this item has passed, don't you?" I trembled from every pour in my young body as my mind worked through all these terribly punishments my mother had told me the police inflicted upon juvenile criminals. Punishments my mother agreed with! "However," Mrs. Courtney continued switching the sign on the shop door to 'closed', and snapping the dead bolt, locking us in, "There is a way for you to redeem yourself. Do you know what it is?" "I could help in the shop." I suggested, "I'd do anything you wanted me to, honest! I'm stronger than I look." I flexed my right arm trying to crack a barely existing muscle which Mrs. Courtney felt through my coat. "I can see how big you are boy." Her hand moved firmly up my arm to my face, touching the soft dark fuzz sprouting on my upper lip. "However, honesty does not appear to be one of your strong points." I didn't understand and repeated, parrot fashion, "I'll do any job you want me to." Mrs. Courtney's thumbs hooked into the collar of my windbreaker and eased the jacket from my shoulders and down my arms, which lowered themselves. Now, I caught on, just a second too late to catch my windbreaker as it passed over my hands. "Please," I begged. The answer I received sent shivers through my spine. "There is no point petitioning for clemency young man for I am aware of your criminal intent on this occasion and those which have proceeded it." I blushed. Mrs. Courtney raised my chin with the back of her hand until I had no option but to look into the thin scowl that marked her face. "I shall employ you for as long as it takes for you to repay me my trouble. After that, we shall see." "Thank you!" I sounded like a frightened mouse. She continued as if I hadn't. "You will deliver papers every morning and evening without fail. Do you understand me?" "Yes Miss!" I reverted, automatically, to the appropriate form of address. "Before that, however, there is the matter of your thievery to be dealt with." I backed into the shelves as her hands began to move, once more, reaching for the magazine. Grasping the top, they covered the blood dripping title letters but didn't pull it from my jeans. Instead her other hand popped the button, and then the zip until Kerrang! was free. The magazine back on the shelf, I continued to plead against whatever was going to happen next. Unable to say little more than "Please!" over and over again. It was as if my mind was frozen in time. "Remember," she said, "I caught you steeling from my shop." Slowly, my shirt was lifted. My arms raised by reflex to allow it to be removed. "I am sure you are a good boy at heart." she said. My jeans were eased down my legs. "It is just that some boys need a little reminder of their place." "Please Mrs. Courtney." I said yet again, my voice wobbling up and down its entire breaking range. Yet, still I made no effort to stop her. My hands remained by my sides as my legs were raised and the denim was completely removed. My white trainers and black socks following them to a pile beside the confectionery counter. "I have raised three children of my own and know how to keep them in their place. Of course my Rose was nowhere near the trouble of her brothers." She appeared to be in some sort of trance. But, then, I was little better, standing frozen to the spot as my underpants were eased down. "I see you are not unaccustomed to being kept in line, boy!" It took a while before I realised she could see my last experiment at corporal punishment. Thankfully, she misunderstood. "That is in your mother's favour." My hips held steady, I was turned to face the shelves. Fingers, stretched from the grip to brush across the marked flesh of my rear, caressing the tender swells of my bum. Slowly, Mrs. Courtney rose from her crouch, both hands working together, sliding up my torso to my wrists, raising them too, one on either side. Her breath, soft and easing on my neck as my arms were raised to the top shelf. Eagerly, I grasped the edge of the second-to-top shelf. My fingers quickly entwining in the elastic holding the skin mags and naturist titles. Staring right down at my pale body, multiple images of hairy adults were censored by banner headlines proclaiming the magazine to be "the world's oldest naturist publication." Reading this I missed Mrs. Courtney take up the copy of Kerrang! I had attempted to steal. Thwack! "OUCH!" I yelped as the rolled up magazine slapped across my rear only accustomed to the feel of a maternal hand and one misplaced attempt with a skipping rope. Thwack! "Hold still, thief." She growled under her breath, "It is no more than you deserve." Thwack! "OUCH! Sorry, Miss." "My paperboys need to know how to behave." Thwack! "Yes, Miss." Thwack! "Ow!" I settled down after that. At last I'd found someone whom I could respect. That was more than I could ever do for my father and his wishy-washy ideas on child-rearing. At least, I intended to settle down, but the feel of the magazine rapping across my bum near drove me crazy. It was better than anything I had previously imagined, and that was saying something, even in those early days. Soon I couldn't hold back any longer. I yelped and cried out, not in pain, you understand, but because of the pleasure of it all, was just too much. Sweat broke out all over my body, but mainly on my forehead, clinging to my long hair, clumping it into near dreadlocks. My bum quickly went blushed red, yet there was no pain to be felt, just an intense burning that was lighting my fire far quicker than any magazine had ever done. And while I tossed and turned spread-eagled against those shelves. Then, it stopped. In an overly enthusiastic swing Mrs. Courtney hand had brushed several pots of pens and pencils sending the combined mess all over the floor. "Now look what you've made me do!" she roared "I'm sorry Miss." I said turning to look over my shoulder. "I'll clean it up." "Too right you will. At once." My hands were released but before I could bend down the Kerrang! again assaulted my barely teenage rear. Stunned, I turned to her, forgetting about my nakedness until reminded. "You cannot run around the shop like that boy." I wondered why seeing as no one could see through the blanked windows but didn't dare argue. Instead I went for my clothes only to be stopped again though, thankfully, by words only this time. "Not those. I have the perfect thing for you boy. Wait there." Standing naked in the middle of the semi dark shop was not my favourite experience but it did give me the perfect opportunity to have a look at the damage down to my bottom. Thus by glancing over my shoulder I saw, for the first time, what a bad boy's bottom should look like with both the once alabaster cheeks covered in an almost perfect red shine from beneath my waist line down to the tops of my thighs. "If you think that looks bad then you should see what I'll do to you next time you cross me. Now put this one and get to work." Mrs. Courtney's sudden reappearance startled me but half as much as what she was holding. "I can't..." I said, pointing as she rounded the counter from the back room. The apron couldn't have been any more feminine, especially with the bright pink colouring and the frills around the shoulders and hem. She couldn't possible expect me to wear that? She did. "You can and you will boy, else I'll introduce you to my cane collection, one at a time." I found the image thrilling even though I knew my smarting bottom couldn't take any more. Swallowing what little pride I had left I turned took the garment and slipped my arms into the holes, fumbling with the tie cords behind until Mrs. Courtney ordered me to turn around and fastened them herself in a tight bow directly above my bottom. "Now get to work," I was told, "And do a good job or I'll put you over me knee for a spanking like you have never had before." Scared yet tantalised by the threat I fell to my knees and set to the task before me. I worked mechanical trying to imagine how it would feel to be put across Mrs. Courtney's great lap. My mother had, indeed, spanked me a few times behind father's back when I'd been younger but not once I became of such an age to enjoy the sensation. In fact, that's what had stopped them. I was bigger now, of course, and it would be no easy matter to turn me pull down my trousers should I not want it done but, I was sure, Mrs. Courtney would be able to manage it whatever I said. Perhaps, I thought, she'd tie me up and... Swot! The stinging blow wiped all thoughts from my head like a duster over a school blackboard. My bottom aching worse than it ever had before I spun my head around to see what had caused such a wide spread pain. Only to meet the leather bladed paddle as it came down for the second time. Swot! "I warned you to be diligent in your work, did I not. Now, get on with it." With the four inch diameter paddle never more than a couple of feet from my up ended posterior I scrambled around the floor as quickly as I could picking up every pen and pencil I could find. When, at last, I was given permission to stand, a surreptitious glance at the shop's clock informed me I'd been on my knees for over half-an-hour. A fact that was easily verified by the dirt encrusted into my knees poking out from beneath the apron hem. "Very good boy." congratulated Mrs. Courtney, "There is one more task I want you to perform before I allow you to depart." Guessing correctly that her following pause was for me to answer I repeated my sentiments from before my bottom had been reddened. "I'll do anything Miss." "Yes," a brief smile flickered at the edges of my Mistress's mouth before being snatched hastily away, "I thought you would." I didn't know what to say. I certainly wasn't about to lie to Mrs. Courtney and, yet, I couldn't bring myself to admit the simple truth in what could, so easily, have been a joke. Standing to attention with my hands by my sides, I did nothing, in the end, but watch as Mrs. Courtney finished with the daily returns, wrapping the foot high bundle with stout string. "Boy!" she said when the knot was tied to her satisfaction. "Come here." I scuttled across the room to the 'customer' side of the counter. "Yes Miss." "I want you to put these out. Then you may go." I missed the conclusion of her instructions, having become stuck on the final word of the first sentence. "Out!" I whispered. "Yes out. How else do you think the supplier's men will be able to get them. Come on. Hurry up. I have to be up early and so do you boy!" "But I can't." I protested despite myself. "Not like this." "You can and you will." Automatically I backed into the wall with my hands over my burning bottom as Mrs. Courtney approached only for the newsagent to turn down the other isle and open the shop door. "I can't!" I repeated. "You have a choice." she said, "Either you do as I say now or, you will do your paper rounds in my Rose's party dress, day and night. Now go." Again, I knew she meant it an that the thought I would return once out the door was not in doubt. I knew this to which is why I heaved the bundle from the counter and, struggling under its weight, carried it out into the dark street. Never have the late night streets seemed as noisy as they did to my that night. Even though no one was in sight I was convinced the slightest noise on my part would bring people running from every nook and cranny in the deserted street. It sounds stupid now, but I was certain my bare feet slapped the cold stones of the pavement with the sound of a rifle being fired. Likewise, the way the degrading apron flapped around my near naked body reminded me of the actions that had caused my bottom its current colour. A colour that, surely, looked like the brightest break light on the largest motorcycle. Mrs. Courtney walked beside me - on the inside of course so I couldn't hide my shame behind her - directing me to lay my burden at the very edge of the broad pavement, beside a lamppost. "Put them there." she said. "Carefully. Use your back." Keeping my knees locked together I went against everything my sports teacher had taught about lifting posture. Bending entirely from the waist I near doubled myself as my head was dragged towards the cracks in the pavement by the sheer weight of newspaper. No sooner had the bundle touched the concrete flags than Mrs. Courtney pounced. Thick, muscle bound legs appeared to the left of my head seconds before an arm wrapped itself around my waist, I thought, for support. When I tried to rise, however, my head was roughly shoved back down until I was forced to place my hands around my ankles. Then, it started. Swot! Swot! Swot! Swot! Swot! Swot! The blows were rapidly and perfectly placed across the centre of my already battered bottom. Each one, sufficient enough to make me gasp on its own yet, combined, they had me blubbing to be released before they were even halfway over. But, no matter how I tried to stop it Mrs. Courtney didn't stop until she'd reached her pre-set tally of twelve. Only then did she release me from my grip and stormed back to the shop. Despite my pain and humiliation there was no way I was going to stand in the street with light coming on in the front rooms of the opposite houses. Brushing aside fears the door would be closed in my face I jerked upright. A sudden new pain shot through me from behind as the battered flesh bunched against itself as I stood. Turning did much the same but, by then, there was little new about it. Hands as close to the burning skin as I could stand, I dashed into the shop, pushing the door open with my chest. Mrs. Courtney slammed it behind me. "I hope, young man," she said when I spun, and grimaced, at the lock snapping shut, "the you will now know how to behave whilst you are in my employ." "Yes, Miss!" I said, clearing tears from my eyes. "Good. In that case you may dress in your own clothes and depart but," her hand shot up, brandishing the paddle an inch from my nose, "you had best be back here at six sharp else you will not be sitting down for a very long time." I didn't think I would be anyway, judging by the way my bottom throbbed, but thanked her anyway. I worked for Mrs. Courtney for nearly three years before a death in her family forced her to shut up the shop and move away. In that time, however, she taught me many things both with, and without, the aid of her corporal punishment weaponry. Any misdemeanour, any transgression, no matter how trivial, was dealt with in the sternest fashion and, yes, I did end up wearing some of Rose Courtney's wardrobe. Not the party dress however, but the almost as demeaning short skirted school uniform which was bad enough for a fourteen-year-old boy to endure. Naturally, though, it was my bottom that took the full brunt of Mrs. Courtney's displeasure and for teaching me right from wrong in the best way possible, I shall always be grateful for those years I spent as a paperboy, under her lash. -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | <http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>